Body and Soul
by opera.74
Summary: How Rumpelstiltskin and Belle saw their relationship as it unfolded over the first two seasons of OUAT? Their love story is told from two points of view. A QUICK UPDATE FOR ALL READERS (WHO ARE GREATLY APPRECIATED - THANK YOU ALL, GUYS!): THE CURRENT STATUS OF THE STORY IS 'COMPLETE', BUT I WILL OBVIOUSLY UPDATE IT DURING FOLLOWING MONTHS TO INCLUDE EVENTS OF SEASON 3.
1. Chapter 1

BODY AND SOUL

1

It was Her.

There, in the middle of the dimly lit and crowded room, She stood out, even though in reality she was standing in the background. In the sea of anxious faces, turned towards him in reaction to his sneering greeting, Her face shone, making everything else fade out and blur.

It was Her. The One. The girl he never hoped to find, though somehow always knew he would. Or the other way round. The girl for whom he always waited and for whom he searched eagerly, forever telling himself that she doesn't exist anywhere but in his imagination, and even if she did exist, she wouldn't be destined for him. How could she? He was not meant to love and to be loved – nobody ever loved him, and in his heart of hearts he knew no one ever would. No, that's not right. In his heart of hearts he always hoped the opposite, hoped that love will come into his life, and will change it. He just disciplined himself not to entertain these futile hopes. He is a very clever person, and always was – he lived by his wits, there was a time when his intelligence used to be his only armor against the harsh world. He knew his ever-hopeful heart is a worse enemy then any outside force. The heart is foolish. It always dreams of the impossible, and it can make you forget what you really are and therefore make you weak and eventually destroy you. So he always silenced his heart when it whispered to him of hopes and dreams. His mind was always in control. Well, nearly always.

If someone – anyone – ever asked him: 'Do you hope to find love?' he would have laughed this person in the face. And stifle the pang of hope that stirred in his soul at the very sound of the word. Yet it was ever there, this hope. He just never let it into his consciousness, never acknowledged it to himself. But it was always there, alive and gleaming, making him commit stupid mistakes and invest unsuitable women with great significance, making him angry and bitter at disappointments. It is very easy to tell yourself to expect nothing, but it is much easier said then done. However wisely you tell yourself there is nothing to expect, you always do hope for something – such is human nature. And when your hopes are crushed, and when your expectations are not met, you are hurt and you leash out on the world, trying to punish it for cruelty. You should punish yourself for your own foolishness, really, but you rarely stop to think of that. You strike first, and think later, usually while looking in horror at what you've done.

And in his case, what he can do is usually truly horrible.

Yet, with this dangerous hope ever present, in the depth of his heart, hidden from the world and especially from himself, it is funny how he could never predict that something important, something life-changing is going to happen. Oh, he often had this feeling of premonition, of alertness, of readiness for a miracle. It seemed he could smell it in the air, like the coming rain. He could wake up, get out of the house, walk – limp, later, – up to the hills with his sheep, look at the damp sky, feel the wind on his face, and then catch himself thinking: 'It is going to happen today'. He could never explain what that 'it' was. He just knew it was coming, knew it was near. The miracle, the magical 'something', that would fill his miserable life with light and meaning. Yet it never happened. He was always wrong. By the end of the day the heady feeling would be gone and forgotten. He would come home beaten and weary, knowing that life is what it is, not what we wish it to be. It was so long ago when he lived in a dark hut in his poor village. It is so now, when he lives in a dark castle on gloomy hills. He knows well enough not to trust it, that elation that comes with the wind and dies as the wind.

Yet today, there was no elation, no expectation of anything. He came here, to this pitiful little kingdom, out of sheer boredom. Their request was so small, so easily answered there was actually no need for him to come at all. Defeating the ogres for him is routine; he could have done it without moving from his comfortable chair. Yet he was bored, and he was so highly amused by the offer of gold (just how stupid must this king be, offering _him_ gold?), that he came over just for a bit of fun. To tease these people here, to sneer at them, to show off a bit – he does love an audience, – to make them sweat a little before granting them what they asked for; that's what he came for. One must amuse oneself, sometimes.

He certainly didn't come here looking for love.

Yet he came into the room, he sat on the throne, and he uttered his first sneering words, and they turned to him, startled, and he just started to enjoy himself, feeding on their fear, and there She was, standing amongst them, solemn and silent, looking at him with those incredible eyes. Not scared or intimidated like the rest of them; no, she looked baffled and curious, as if not quite believing her eyes, as if trying to figure out what on earth That Thing is, sitting on her father's throne, giggling.

He didn't think that – he could never _think_ that, consciously, – it came as a certain, absolute knowledge, and it came surely and wholesomely, in one piece, as if a rock was planted in his soul, or as if a voice from above sounded in his mind, addressing his heart directly, bypassing all rational thoughts and telling him: 'This is Her. You have found her'.

And he panicked.

He is scared, now, as never before in his life. She exists – that fact alone is enough to shatter his peace of mind, the foundations of his world. He has found her, and recognized her, their lives collided – the impossible has happened. Yet the fact that she exists doesn't really change anything – doesn't mean anything. There is no guarantee that their meeting will have the same significance to her as it has to him. Guarantee? No, there is simply _no way_ it will mean anything to her. He has found her, that's true. He knows that he will love her till his dying breath – though it doesn't feel like he loves her now, he is just too shocked for anything of the sort. But nobody said that she would love him. Why should she? _How_ could she?

So, the fact that she exists doesn't promise anything – it brings no hope, no bright future. It is a blow, rather. A cruel trick of fate: to give him the proof of the reality of his personal miracle, yet to devoid him of all hope.

He knows he must not hope. He knows he must calm his madly beating heart. Nothing happened; it's just him, and his stupid dreaming soul; all this is just his problem, and shouldn't concern her. He must leave this place, now. He must leave her in peace. He must flee from her and try to forget that she is real.

Yet she is standing there, in the middle of the crowd, and she looks at him with those eyes of hers, looks in bewilderment at him prattling rubbish, barely registering his own words, giggling like a nervous teenager, camping out as never before, showing off his bravura image in a truly overblown fashion. She must think him mad. She must laugh at him, inwardly. She must despise him. She must fear him.

Yet how can she fear him when he is making a complete fool of himself?

Oh, those eyes of hers, bright and blue as the sky in the mountains that he roamed in his youth. There is such light in them. They shine so. They are so warm. They promise so much.

Her skin is so white – it must be soft like a wing of a butterfly, velvety and so delicate that to even think of touching it brings tears to his eyes. Her hair is so rich; the auburn locks are so shiny. To run his fingers through it, to feel those silky treads caress his skin… Oh what sweet, sweet madness.

How can he leave without her, now that he had found her? How can he _live_ without her?

Yet how can he have her? How can he ask for her? His ugliness and his curse aside, how can he actually get her to come with him? And he must do that – he knows, suddenly, that he has to take her with him. He must have her on his own. God knows what he'll do with her – he'd never gather the courage or the stupidity to actually court her, but he must have her near him, even if just to have a chance to look at her, sometimes. She must come to his castle for, if he leaves her now, without her he will perish. And he will never gather the courage to come back for her. If not now, then never – once he is away from her, he will talk himself into the impossibility of all that, again. He will convince himself it was a mistake. He will believe it is all hopeless.

Yet now, when she is so near, he cannot resist. He cannot stop himself.

As if from a distance, he hears himself saying in this nasty whining tone he affirms when talking to people with whom he trades: 'What I want is something a bit more special. My price is… her'. He is pointing his clawed finger at the girl. Her father answers with a flat 'No', yet he doesn't sound too sure. What a filthy man – he is indeed ready to trade her! Her oafish fiancée states the obvious: 'The young lady is engaged to me'. Oh, this boy is strangely not as stupid as he looks – he understands what is going on… Or was it just a lucky guess?

She doesn't say anything. She only lowers her eyes, momentarily, than looks up at him. She is disturbed, and annoyed. She doesn't like him, or find him amusing. She is apprehensive.

But she is not scared.

She is the only person in the room who is not scared – of ogres, and of him.

What is he thinking, trying to take this strange and fearless girl with him? Is that wise, to let such a baffling creature get close to him?

Yet he cannot stop himself – not now. He is completely carried away.

'I wasn't asking if she were engaged!' Can they _all_ hear just how false and forced the irony in his voice sounds? 'I am not looking for _love_…' God, it is getting worse and worse… Nobody in the room mentioned _'love'_; he is just giving himself away… 'I am looking for a… caretaker for my rather large estate'.

Now were did _that_ come from? What kind of a stupid reason is that? He is The Dark One. The greatest wizard in the land. What would he need a caretaker for? He can defeat the ogres with one thought – surely he can clean his _estate_, however large it is, without a caretaker?

They will ask him that now, surely. But they don't. Perhaps they are complete idiots. Or they are just scared mindless. Whatever it is, no one disputes his wild suggestion, and he presses on: 'It is her – or no deal'.

Her stupid father recovers from shock and refuses. Her stupid fiancée tries to shield her. She lowers her eyes, again.

He makes to leave, numbly.

He did try. He can't force them. It is their choice. Well, he _can_ force them, but he will not, for they are right in refusing him. He has asked the impossible, and it was deeply insulting – it was too much, even for him, with his reputation of ruthlessness.

It was all pointless and hopeless, anyway.

He is almost out of door. He is going to go and leave her behind. Just a couple more steps.

And then he hears her sigh, and feels her eyes upon him – it is amazing how he can feel her looking, as if her gaze was a physical thing.

'Wait!' she says.

He turns to face her.

Oh God, she is so close to him. She looks him straight in the eye – defiantly. She swallows – of course, she _is_ scared, she is just very good at hiding it, and now, when she had a closer look at him, she is more scared then before. What is he hoping for? Why is he doing this? He must stop, he must change the conditions of the deal – he is not evil, not really, he actually wants to help those fools, for ogres are menace and their request for help was very reasonable.

But, even if he really wanted to negotiate further, he has no time to speak, for the girl gives a little decisive nod, and says: 'I will go with him'.

Her family makes a fuss – understandably.

He giggles like a fool, hoping that it will somehow come over as a sound of malicious glee, which is expected of him, and not as a nervous expression of released tension that it really is. He didn't realize just how tense he was, just how much he wanted it all to turn in his favor, somehow. He must have been holding his breath, he actually feels weak in the knees now.

She argues with her protectors. She makes a stand. She looks at him – searchingly, as if trying to see in his face some sign of normality, some reason to trust him.

She looks so fragile and strong and so beautiful.

'I shall go'.

He cannot do this to her. It is pointless. He has been imagining things, and he is subjecting this girl to something awful – for no reason other than his fickle illusions.

He must scare her off, warn her, he must make her go back on their deal…

'It is forever, dearie'.

He sounds disgusting. Good. That's precisely what he must seem to her – disgusting, impossible to endure a single moment with, let aside an eternity.

It is just that he has a terrible feeling that his eyes show her something else. She is so close to him that he can feel the warmth of her skin, and smell her hair; he can see the dark eyelashes over those magical eyes. She is so sweet, and he is so enchanted – she must see right through him, surely, see how overwhelmed he is, how completely her beauty defeats him in his self-imposed ugliness… Oh, the sadness of it.

She certainly looks a bit confused. His sinister act is not working, not on her, anyway – she is not scared any more, but she seems to be searching for something in his face, again. He confused her: he was sneering and evil, just a moment ago, but he is sad and serious now. She probably tries to figure him out, and she can't.

No wonder – he barely understands himself at this moment.

'My family, my friends… they will all live?'

How earnest she is. And how impossibly young.

Never, ever in his life has he seen anything as lovely as this girl.

'You have my word'. He did try to say that with a hint of his impish irony. But he came across with a hint of misplaced gentleness.

She nods – she is such a child, all her actions have the air of solemnity affected by kids when they are promising to keep a secret of a hidden treasure, or some such trifle that means a world to a young soul. 'Then you have mine. I shall go with you, forever'.

Be still, oh foolish heart. It is nothing – she just promised to come to your castle, not to share your life. But her eyes are locked with yours, and the word 'forever' rings in the stillness of the room, and gathers a full and deep significance.

She has sworn herself to him, right here and now. She might never even fully understand what it means. He would never take advantage of her promise. But the deal is done, and it cannot be undone; he, always aware of the magic flowing in the air around him, felt it – the subtle change in the texture of nature. Magic happened, and it was not his doing. It was something beyond his will. She did it when she said the words. And he can feel the effects, right now. He can feel how the two of them – the girl and himself – are drawn from the rest of the people in the room. They are detached from the world, bound together and separated from others. It is as if there is a wall between them and other people, between them and the rest of the world – transparent, yet impossible to penetrate.

He is frightened, now. He knows how magic works, only too well. And it scares him to feel the presence of magic that is bigger than his – magic that is beyond his control.

Magic comes with a price, and he wonders what price the two of them will have to pay.

'Deal', he squeals, trusting the giggling sound to hide his uneasiness.

Her father protests, again. He is quite rude – he calls him a beast. He is past being offended, though. He just makes a face at the pompous fool.

A weird lightness enters his heart; he feels a certain hysterical gaiety. He has gotten himself into something that he cannot fully grasp yet. Something changed, today, and forever, for him and for this girl. And she knows it, too – feels it, somehow. He can hear this mystical awareness in the tone of her voice when she says to her father: 'It has been decided'.

Whatever it was, it is done now.

He sides with the girl: 'She is right. The deal is struck'.

Ah, that is more like it – the little twist of magical treads that he feels now is of his doing. His deal, his simple and understandable deal, is indeed done – the ogres are gone. He has fulfilled his contract. Now he can take away his prize.

He gestures to the girl that they must go, and casts a final glance at the people they leave behind. How full of hatred are their faces. Well, he cannot be offended with it – not today. Today he probably deserves this hatred. He did do something awful.

Yet the guilt, the uncertainty and the uneasiness all disappear when, leading the girl through the door, he briefly touches her back.

She doesn't shun from him, as he expected her to. She walks by his side calmly and confidently, as if it is completely natural to have his leathery paw on her back.

Perhaps she didn't notice. She is probably too shocked to notice anything. But he… Oh, he is so very aware of her. In this brief touch, he felt the warmth of her skin, the silky smoothness of her hair, which is softer then the silk of her dress. Just a brief touch, just a fleeting moment, but it came flooding back to him, this knowledge that what is happening to him is inevitable. It was meant to be. It is Her. The One. He never had it before, this very physical feeling of… belonging. This girl, she is just so very right for him. She was made for him. When he touched her, he knew – he felt – that hers is the skin he was meant to touch, and no other will ever do now.

It is funny, actually. He has spent so many years longing for her, dreaming of her, somewhere deep in his soul, he was so hopeless and frustrated at not finding her, and so angry with himself for ever wishing to find her. But of course he couldn't find her – she just wasn't born yet. But now she is here, with him, this exquisite child with a brave heart. And he doesn't really know what he'll do with her, yet right now he cannot be bothered to think about it. There will be time for that. At this instant, he doesn't want to think. He wants to live, briefly, in the glow of untainted gladness brought on by her presence – by her very being.

He has her, and that is all that matters.

She said 'Forever' to him, she looked into his eyes and said it, and something in the world changed. This is all that matters now.

He looks down at her bended head, at the whiteness of her shoulders, at her locks and her long lashes, and he smiles. She is so youthful and beautiful, it is breathtaking.

Her name is Belle, which means 'beautiful', and there never was a better-suited name.


	2. Chapter 2

2

By the time they reached the Dark Castle, he has regained some measure of sanity, and clearly saw that he has made a terrible mistake.

He summoned his carriage, the magical one that drives without a groom, for he did not want to disturb the texture of magic any more tonight with tricks such as transporting them to his abode in the cloud of smoke, for example. So, they traveled by carriage, and it was a long journey, and not a pleasant one. They were sitting opposite each other, and in the dark interior of the carriage he was acutely aware of her presence, and of her gloomy mood. The rush of excitement, the heroic elation that made her go with him must have left her, and their aftermath was depressed bewilderment, and fear. She didn't know what would happen to her now, what he'll do with her; she was lost and forlorn.

He felt her gaze as she was stealing shifty glances on him, trying to access him. What she saw obviously couldn't comfort or reassure her. He is a monster, and he did wonder at the courage it took her to actually sit with him so close without screaming and trying to escape. Well, she gave him her word, and as she is a princess, her word obviously means a lot. Yet he had no doubt that she regretted her decision bitterly, and he knew he couldn't do anything to comfort her.

Hours had passed in the un-companionable silence, and he knew it was never going to work. She would always fear him and be repulsed by him. She will never see in him anything other then the evil imp who took her away from her family. And she will be right, actually, for he is nothing but a malicious horror, as dark inside as he is ugly in appearance, and there is nothing else to see in him apart from his black nature. He was a fool to take her, and he made a fool of himself, and he was ashamed to think of all the bright and blazing hopes he felt when he was making her come with him. And he knew that if she stays close to him, he will make an even bigger fool of himself – he understood, only too well, that hopes and dreams will return, and he will do silly things, and the girl will stop fearing him and will come to despise him. This he will not be able bear. He had to do something to create a barrier between them, to scare her so much that she'd never get close enough to know him and his weaknesses. He was so vulnerable before her that he had to turn her away completely, or else she'd destroy him.

The easiest thing, of course, would have been to simply let her go, but this thought never crossed his mind.

What he thought of instead was a plan: to behave as nasty as he possibly can. Her father called him a beast. Excellent, then, he will _be_ a beast. He will act in a truly beastly fashion.

Thus, when they finally arrived to the castle, he dragged her along gloomy corridors, ignoring her pleading questions about her future fate, and promptly put her in the dungeon, locking the door and sneering at her cries and sobs.

That would teach her not to play a hero in the future.

Let her cry and curse him in the dampness of her cell. Let her hate him and think him a monster. It is much safer then to let her look into his eyes, and perhaps see there something that might place him completely in her power.

She doesn't need to know that, after locking her in the cell, he stayed by her door for hours, listening to her sobs and, later, to her sleeping breathing. She doesn't need to know that, when he finally forced himself to retreat to his chamber, he briefly touched the smooth wood of the heavy door separating them, wishing it were her skin.

In the morning, for want of any reasonable explanation of her presence in the castle, he did make her go around doing domestic duties. Of course he could clean the place himself, without any human help, he could simply think the dust away, but he never bothered, and the place was filthy. There actually was a fair amount of things for her to do – scrubbing the floors, washing, cooking.

He explained her duties sitting at the end of the long table in his dining room, never actually used for dining, for he rarely ate normal meals – lonely people seldom do. She was fussing with a tea tray while he talked, and he found twisted pleasure in teasing her. She was so collected, so determined to be calm and efficient; after her night in the dungeon she obviously wanted to please him as best she could. She looked so touchingly sweet, he felt he might lose his determination to be cruel to her. So he scared her, momentarily, mentioning skinning little children, and she dropped one of the teacups, and chipped it. And then she nearly collapsed – kneeling, holding the cup up to him in trembling fingers, she apologized prettily, but her voice quivered, and she was on the verge of tears. He overdid his evil act, obviously. He wanted to reassure her, to spring from his chair and to help her get up from the floor. Yet from where he was sitting he had an excellent view of her cleavage, and the sight of her bosom, heaving in distress, made him think of things that were very contradictory to his decision to stay as far away from her as possible. In fact, it made him want to be as close to her as possible; to touch that very white and very soft skin, to take the cup from her delicate fingers and brush them gently, pressing her small hand to his chest, while laying a finger of his free hand on her parted lips to silence her apology. And then he realized that he should not stand up from his chair, any time soon, for he was wearing rather tight pants and, if he stood up, his reaction to her kneeling position would, well, show. Embarrassed, he inwardly cursed his dirty mind and his lonely life – what has he come to, if just a glimpse of her naked skin excites him out of any proportion?

He waved her apology away; 'It's just a cup', he said. She nodded, bit her lip, and went on with her duties. He cocked his head on the side, following her retreating figure with a long gaze, caught himself staring at her naked arms, holding the tray, and cursed himself again.

By the middle of the day he was surprised to find that she was actually quite good at doing the things he demanded. He asked her how did that happened – was her miserable father so poor that he made her do the housework?

She raised an eyebrow at that spiteful remark, looked at him sternly and explained in a polite and cold voice that she was brought up as a princess, and that means she learned how to do everything that is asked of her servants, for she must gain their respect. _And_ she must know how things are done so that she can control if they are done properly. With that, she turned on her heels and proudly walked to the kitchen to make him some lunch. Soup, it turned out to be later.

He was left staring into the space were she just stood, feeling humble and chastened. She was so much better than him, in every way. She was young and beautiful, brave and of noble birth. He, even with all his powers and affected gestures, is just a peasant, and always will be. She is a princess, and remains a princess even with a broom or a bowl of soup in her hands.

By the end of the day he was completely convinced he made a terrible mistake. He should never have taken the girl with him. Her presence invaded the castle so much he felt crowded. He seemed to be always in her way – he never knew just how intimidating a woman could be when she is absorbed in cleaning. She was everywhere – dusting and swiping, leaving the sweet scent of her skin and hair everywhere she went, and it was impossible not to look at her. He was unable to concentrate on his work. He couldn't think, couldn't spin, he seemed to be spending all his time listening to her light steps or the gentle sound the train of her silk dress made as it drugged on the floor. She fed him three hot meals. He brought tea to his study, and put the tray on the table where he was making a potion, almost tripping it over. He nearly screamed at her, and yet how could he, when she was standing before him all modest and sweet, casting her eyes to the floor, bending her head and asking if he needed anything else tonight? He grumbled a negative, and she marched to her cell.

And then, from behind the locked door, he heard her crying again.

And he felt like ripping his own heart out, so as not to feel anything, for to listen to her distress was truly unbearable, and to change anything between them was impossible.


	3. Chapter 3

3

Her family often teased her for being a dreamer. They were warriors, all of them, and rarely stopped to think before swinging a sword. They were coarse and direct, their laughter was loud and their steps heavy. She always looked odd amongst them – too small, too quiet, and too beautiful. Of course they doted on her – she was their lovely little princess, yet she did feel sometimes that they didn't think of her as a human being, but as a sort of domestic pet, rather: a pretty kitten, or something like that. It was difficult for her to blend in with them – from the very early days of her life she felt she was somehow a bit brighter than most of the adults around her. Sometimes, staring at the sky at night or sitting by her window listening to the rain (she _loved_ to do that) she would get a feeling that the world is a much greater and complicated place than it seemed at the first glance, that it is a mystery to be explored. The wind on her face felt like a breath of something beyond the obvious. Yet she could never explain that feeling to any of the people close to her. When she'd mention it, they would just say: 'But of course the world is big, you should just cross the mountains to see how vast the next plane is, little Belle', and they would toss her hair, and walk away smiling at the 'silly little princess'. She couldn't make them understand that she meant something beyond mountains and planes and forests. She felt frustrated at not being able to explain herself. At first she thought the problem is with her – she is weird. Then she discovered books and realized that there were other people in the world who knew what she meant, and had similar feelings and thoughts. Only none of them happened to be members of her family. So she read more and more, talking to the people on the pages rather than to her family, and gradually came to think of herself as an essentially lonely person. She knew that none of the things she finds important and exiting interest people around her even in the slightest. Everything that mattered to her, mattered only to _her_, and that was that. So she stopped trying to talk to her family – she kept herself to herself, always escaping to the dream world of her books, were imaginary people understood her.

She was not naïve, she knew that books are books, and the stories in them are made up. She never expected her life to suddenly become like one of the stories. She did not dream of adventures really happening to her, and she did not expect a handsome prince or a dark stranger to enter her life. Her life, her real life, was structured and simple and very predictable. She had a fiancée, and he was a nice young man; nothing exiting, just a very decent fellow, rather like a brother to her. He _was_ almost a brother – a cousin, actually, he was deemed a suitable husband for her because he was close to the family. Her father had no sons, so she was supposed to marry Gaston and bear him children so, when her father died, there would be heirs to the throne – she could not become the queen, but her male descendants could inherit the kingdom. She was content with this arrangement – she knew her duty, and she planned to live a quiet life, helping the men run the state as best as she could, enjoying her simple pleasures, and gathering wisdom from her books. She was, to some extent, a person divided in two; there was a practical, sensible girl living a life amongst the people. And there was a dreamer, yearning for strong emotions and interesting things and adventures. These two girls were aware of their separate existence; they looked at each other with a quiet detachment, akin to the feeling one gets while looking into somebody's lighted window at night: you see life going on there, inside, and you like it and feel fascinated by it, but you just observe without interfering. The two girls living inside her mind were happy together: the practical girl never spoiled the dreamer's fun, and the dreamer never let her imagination run too wild.

She was not happy, perhaps, but she was content with her life. She did not expect it to turn very exiting, yet she never thought it would bring her anything unpleasant, too. She expected her life to run smoothly as an unbroken tread till her dying day. If someone told her that her life will change completely and irrevocably in one instant, she would never have believed it. She would never have believed that she would change it herself – with her own words and actions and decisions.

Yet, when it happened, it seemed like a completely natural thing.

She must have been out of her mind to step forward when that strange creature offered his deal, and agree to it. Perhaps the reason for that sudden action was that she was unbalanced by all the recent troubles – scared of the ogres, worried sick for her father, who seemed to collapse under strain, frustrated at not being able to help the men in any way. Here was her chance to help, to do something, to solve all their problems at once.

Her own promise to come away from her family with… _That_ _thing_ didn't look like a problem then. It was something _she_ was going to do, and she was completely accustomed to the fact that nobody cared what she does, for they never understood her words and actions, anyway. So, when her father and her fiancée voiced their protest, she was surprised and even slightly irritated by them. It was her decision and her problem, why should it concern them? After all, she was doing her duty, protecting the kingdom, as any princess should. Saving the kingdom must have been their priority, as well. They have asked the Dark One for help, they dragged him all the way to their kingdom, and then they started squabbling over the price? Didn't they know how these things are done – didn't they realize that there is always a price for magic? Didn't they know that this person they called in to help always asks for something unexpected? Well, perhaps they did not know that, or never thought, never made a connection between previous cases and their own. One has to be in a habit of thinking to make a connection like that, and none of the men around her were very good at thinking.

And now they were fussing around her, drawing swords, shouting angry words. They were like little kids… What would their swords do to a person who can defeat the ogres? It was ridiculous, really – no wonder he sneered at them. The more they fretted, the more irritated with them she grew. She suddenly saw her life as it was going to proceed if the deal would fall through: the ogres would win, the castle will be destroyed, her father, and most of his people, would be dead. Gaston will save her – he had king's orders to get her away if danger became real. So, she'd have to flee her country with a fiancée she didn't fancy, seek protection in some other kingdom, and live in exile with a husband that she had to marry to provide heirs for the fallen throne. That was not the fate the practical side of her wanted or expected; and the dreamer in her didn't want to observe that fate coming true in silence. This time, just once, the dreamer spoke up, and said that she had a right to make her own decisions.

So it was all a bit of a teenage rebellion, actually. Not a heroic deed, not a conscious sacrifice – these considerations entered her mind, as well, but they were not the real reasons for her actions. They were the reasons she _had_ to honor the offered deal. Her need to act on her own was the reason she _wanted_ to honor it.

Her heart was beating madly, though she tried to look calm, and she felt she had to act quickly, for the Dark One was about to leave. He didn't seem to be very insistent on his conditions and didn't look as if he really needed her for something – it seemed that, asking for her, he acted out of sheer boredom.

She stepped forward to stop him leaving, and spoke to him, and he turned to face her, and she had a first proper look at him, up close.

She couldn't say that she felt frightened, not really. She was just thoroughly shocked. He didn't look scary or very ugly (ogres looked much worse), he was just so very strange. The greenish skin glinted with specs of golden dust. Rumpled locks looked like moss. He was all green and brown and grey, as if he belonged to the forest and was part of it – a gnarled stomp of a tree that came to life, somehow, or some animal that acquired a human voice. Well, the voice didn't sound very human, too – it was more like a sort of screech, not very natural, slightly affected, even.

He was a completely bizarre creature, and she did wonder what did he want from her. He did not look as if he was going to ravish her in the darkness of his castle – he looked much too ironic and detached to even imagine him doing something of the sort. Yet she very seriously doubted him needing a caretaker, either.

She looked into his eyes, trying to figure him out, and thought how strange it was that this weird creature had human eyes. Well, they were not human, really – they were filmy and green and unnaturally still, like the eyes of some reptile that only blinks once in an hour, but their expression was entirely human. There was no mockery in his eyes as he looked at her; on the contrary, he looked a bit sad and very _kind_ as he warned her that their deal was forever, and she didn't feel any danger from him.

So she promised him what he asked for. And, as she pronounced the word 'forever', that's when she felt it – the abrupt change of her destiny. Her life as she knew it was over, at that very instant. The course her life was meant to run – the course on which she married Gaston, had children, lived at home, grew old, read quietly by the fireplace watching her family have fun, that course disappeared from the imaginary landscape of her life, and instead of a comfortable road she found a bleak and vast wilderness of the unknown spreading before her. It was deserted, empty and dark, it was filled with chilly mist, and she knew not where she should go or what she should do. There was only one thing solid and clear in this new and frightening world were she imagined herself – He, The Dark One, was standing by her side. He was the only living thing to keep her company in the darkness. And she couldn't find anything comforting or reassuring in that – she was frightened, she was chilled to the bone by what happened to her. She never felt anything of the sort before, but she guessed: that must have been magic at work. If so, then she was not sure she wanted to have anything to do with it. It felt dangerous.

As her family protested anew, she stood by her… companion and cast him a brief glance. He looked a bit shaken, too. He looked as if something unexpected happened to him as well. She thought it was strange – he was the magician, surely the way magic worked wouldn't disturb him.

She watched her family wearily – she suddenly felt exhausted, ready to drop off her feet. Why were they screaming so, why did her father protest so hotly, insulting the man who came to help him? Nothing could be changed now – even He couldn't change anything. The change that came over her fate, leaving her in a desolate darkness and binding her to this man, could not be undone – she was irrationally sure of that.

She felt a chilly and damp breath of the mist covering her imaginary wilderness as she silenced her father with a sad 'It has been decided'. And then she felt surprisingly hot breath of her new master on the back of her neck (she expected his breath to be cold, somehow), as he came up behind her and whined, grinning at her father: 'You know, she is right. The deal is struck. Oh, congratulations on your little war!'

And with that, he marched her out of door, gently nudging her on the back with an unexpectedly delicate touch of an unexpectedly warm hand.

She felt empty and lost as she walked beside him. She looked at her feet, watching every step.

In her mind, she was just entering the darkness of the wild place her life has become.


	4. Chapter 4

4

As they drove through the night in a magical carriage he summoned, she grew more and more apprehensive. The excitement of the moment when she had made her promise to come to the Dark Castle left her, but the exhaustion and the bleak fear of the unknown remained. She was deeply uneasy. She had no idea what to expect from this man who was now her master. The glimpse of kindness that she saw in his eyes back at her father's castle seemed to be gone entirely. He sat opposite her in the carriage, staring in front of him, apparently lost in thought. He paid her no attention whatsoever, and she felt strangely offended by that. He did ask her to come with him, for some reason – he could have given at least a hint on why did he want her.

She made an effort to compose herself, turning to her sensible side for support and strength. She must not panic; she should try and distance herself from the enormity of the change in her life. It is impossible to analyze what happened, anyway – at least not yet. She must learn more – she wished there was a book on the subject, so that she could consult it. Oh, just imagine it: 'A Comprehensive Guide for Princesses Abducted By Evil Wizards'. Alas, there was no such book – she'd have to use her wits to adjust to the situation as best as she could. And the good way to start is to get to know the man in whose power she placed herself.

She cast furtive glances on him, trying to access him at least outwardly.

The word 'bizarre' kept coming back to her mind. Everything about him was puzzling and overblown and absurd to the extreme, from the color of his skin to the cut of his coat – she had never seen anything remotely like this leathery number decorated with dark frills. It was strangely elegant, though, as if the owner took extreme care with his appearance; it's just that this elegance seemed to come directly from the madhouse. The hair, though greenish in hue, was clean, and it was strange to see such abundance of curls on this wild-looking creature. The hair obscured his face, making it difficult for her to see anything apart from the long and narrow nose and sometimes, when he moved his head and moonlight outlined his features more clearly, his ridiculously long eyelashes. With this nose and those lashes and this… floppy mass of hair he looked to her a bit like a dog – a nervous skinny mongrel, staring into empty air as lost dogs sometimes do before springing into crazed action, running around chasing their tails and barking at everything that moves.

His hands were neatly folded on his knees, right over the left, and she shivered uneasily when she had a closer look at them. They looked like paws, green and leathery and clawed – fingernails long and black and decaying.

'The man looks as if he is rotting alive', she thought. Yet there was no stink of dying flesh – he smelled clean and fresh and… crisp. That, as everything else about him, was puzzling.

All and all, he did not frighten her – that was the conclusion she reached by the end of their journey through the night. In fact his very cold and hostile manner was much more unpleasant than his appearance. And it became worse when they arrived to the castle – he broke his silence and started sneering again, and drugged her to the dungeon, ignoring all her questions and pleas, locked her and went away – she heard him giggling maliciously as he retreated. That was rude and beastly, and that made her angry – he could have at least given her some food and water, he should have offered her some comfort, and she expected to be shown some measure of respect. She was a princess, after all.

But then she remembered that all that was a thing of the past. She was not a princess any more – she belonged to this strange man, and he could do what he pleased with her.

She felt cold, lonely, abandoned and extremely exhausted. She sank to the floor – there was some straw there – and cried bitterly until she cried herself to sleep.

In the morning, he was as nasty and cold as before, but at least she found he has somehow provided her with a jar of fresh water to wash her face. Then he came to unlock the cell, and showed her around the castle, which was indeed vast and dirty (it seemed that his need for a caretaker was genuine), and briskly indicated the things he wanted her to do.

She decided to start with making tea – for her own sake rather then his: he didn't look likely to eat anything, yet she desperately needed some refreshment. Before bringing the tray into the dining room, which was huge and had an entirely unused look, she drank a cup of tea herself: God knows what he'll make her do now; perhaps she wouldn't have time for food.

She felt much better after that cup of tea, and she almost pulled off her 'calm and efficient' act, but then he made a stupid and cruel joke, which made her lose control and drop one of the cups, which was damaged by the fall. She was truly frightened for a second, and she nearly cried with frustration. She stood on her knees in front of him (_not_ out of humility, mind – she knelt to pick up the damned cup!), babbling some apology. And then, suddenly, she saw it again – that glint of kindness in his strange reptilian eyes.

He did not look angry and cold then. He had a dreamy, sad and musing look. And a strange thought came to her regarding his nasty manner; perhaps it is all an act, she thought. Perhaps it is a mask he puts on to conceal something, to keep people away. He is scared of something, this small and dapper and sad man in flashy clothes. He is hiding something.

And the dreamer in her said: 'He is hiding his true self'.

Then the practical girl took over, told the dreamer to shut up and get along with her duties.

It was a busy day – what with cleaning and swiping and some washing and cooking she didn't have a spare moment to think of her situation, and surely not a moment to get really upset. It is amazing how much you can endure when your hands are busy.

She hadn't given much thought to her master, either – she simply had no time. She noticed him out of the corner of her eye while she was working; he seemed strangely idle, and he was always on her way, doing something in the very room that she'd come to clean. 'Doesn't he have anything to do?' she wondered. She always supposed dark wizards were busy folk, but this one just walked from room to room, looking a bit lost. 'May be he is just not used to having someone around the house', thought the practical girl, and added with a hint of malice: 'Good. That will teach him not to abduct princesses he didn't really want'.

'May be he is just lonely', thought the dreamer.

The really unpleasant moment came when, by the end of the day, she found herself in the cell again – alone and cold and tired to the bone. The tears came by they own volition, and she spent some time sitting on her bed of straw, being sorry for herself.

It helped, somehow; her nurse often told her that a good cry is a nice way to relax, and it seemed she was right. She slept peacefully for the rest of the night.


	5. Chapter 5

5

On the next morning she woke up, washed herself with water that mysteriously materialized in her cell again, and looked sadly at her dress. The pretty yellow silk was becoming soiled; the hem was dirty. She should speak to the master about getting her some working clothes – it might please his ego to have a princess cleaning for him, but it is just plain silly to make her do the work wearing her evening dress. But first she'd have to resume her duties. He would probably need his morning tea now. She suspected that he wasn't actually used to having 'morning tea' or any other specific kind of tea – he had an air of a man that ate only when he remembered to, and that was not very often. But he took her on as a caretaker, and that's precisely what she'd do – she would take care of him.

She went to the kitchen to make fire and to cook breakfast, filling the castle with smells of burning wood and hot food, and sounds of clinking plates and teapots. These were cozy smells and sounds, and they made her feel good. She suddenly felt content – she had a brief vision of herself, some time in the future, doing these same things for this man, her master, feeling settled and protected, and… needed. He certainly needed help and care, this strangely un-menacing dark wizard. Who looked like… a lizard. Yes, that's right – he looked like a reptile, that's true, but not a dangerous one, like a crocodile or something else predatory. He looked quick and agile and darting and light – exactly like a small lizard. A wizard-lizard… The idea made her smile, almost affectionately, and she was still smiling as she entered the dining room with the tray in her hands.

And there he sat, in a lonely armchair at the head of the great empty table. He seemed lost in thought; his elbows on the table, his head bend over his hands, his hair shadowing his face. He looked downcast and completely miserable in the dim candlelight. She was surprised at the candlelight – it was a glorious winter morning outside, and then she realized that the curtains on all the windows were tightly drawn. There was no morning in this room, and no light in the life of the man who lived here.

The smile started to fade from her face, but only just, when he looked up at her. He lost his guard, for a split second, and she saw in his eyes something that made her tremble, inwardly. There was despair and longing in his eyes, and they never looked so human to her.

And then his eyes filmed over, regaining their empty reptilian glossiness, and his whole countenance changed: he got a grip of himself. The mask was back in place, with vengeance, and he snarled at her: 'What are you smiling at, you silly girl?'

'Nothing', she mumbled, and hurried over to the table with the tray. He grumbled something by way of 'Thank you', and she escaped to the kitchen to resume her work, and the day went on much as the previous one, with him hovering sulkily on the background and snapping at her occasionally.

The practical girl told herself, repeatedly, that he was what he was – an evil and ugly man, who has taken her on a whim, to spite and humiliate her family, and used her to steam off his bad moods. Yet the dreamer in her refused to be silenced. Her imagination was flying high. She was thinking of hundreds of reasons for his bad temper, his awful looks, and his loneliness. She wondered how he got his power. She shuddered to imagine his evil deeds. She looked at the curious things he collected, and longed to know their stories.

She remembered a tale she once read. It was a story of a girl, a daughter of a nobleman, who brought a famous warrior to his house so that he could entertain him with retelling his adventures. The warrior was ugly – his skin was dark and his looks menacing. Yet his stories were so interesting and so sad that the girl saw through his looks and found a man who not only fought the wars, but also suffered deeply. She was exited by the dangers he had passed, but she also pitied him for them, and she fell in love, and he fell in love with her. Considering his looks the seduction seemed so improbable that the man was even accused of witchcraft, but he defended himself by retelling his stories and fascinating his judges – they believed he could be loved just for them. The story ended badly, eventually – the pair got married, but then the girl was unjustly accused of being unfaithful, and her jealous warrior husband killed her and then himself. But the sad ending didn't concern her now – she was more intrigued by the beginning. The ugly looks, the witchcraft, the mystery of the man… Well, she was _not_ living through the same story, surely? Of course not. Nobody here was falling in love with anybody. Anyway, books were books, and the stories in them were made up. Such things never happened to normal people – thus spoke the practical girl. Yet the dreamer pointed out, and justly so, that being held hostage in a dark castle by a dark wizard can hardly be called 'normal'.

Both the dreamer and the practical girl in her were fascinated by the man. She wanted to _know_ him. And she was determined to get what she wanted.

But it is impossible to get to know someone who shies from you as you march through the room with a broom. She had to get him talking in some situation that was out of the ordinary.

She tried being nice – when she brought him supper, she smiled to him, deliberately. He turned away, pretending not to notice, and became grumpier than usually.

She decided to use his quick temper and to get his attention by irritating him a bit.

This night, when she entered her cell, she didn't feel like crying – not in the slightest. But, as soon as the door slammed shut behind her back, she fell on the straw wailing in pretense of great grief. She sobbed and sobbed, trying to do it as loudly as possible. That should attract his attention, she thought. No sane man can stand such noise for long.

And, sure enough, soon the door to the cell flew open, and there he stood, flustered and truly annoyed, and screamed: 'This cannot go on. This crying – it must stop!'

She ran a hand over her face, pretending to wipe her tears, and glared at him accusingly, ready to voice all the reasons for her distress.

She was getting what she wanted, apparently. They were about to talk.


	6. Chapter 6

6

The whole incident of the stolen magic wand came in extremely handy, or so he thought at the time. The situation was starting to get impossible – he was amazed how quickly it happened, how soon punishment came following the crime. The girl – Belle – had been in his castle for two days. Just two days, and already he felt his life completely destroyed. His settled existence in the castle was disrupted with her cleaning, the air was filled with her presence, and his peace of mind was unhinged by his constant _awareness_ of her. She seemed completely oblivious of what was happening to him. She was moving around the place all businesslike, absorbed in work, looking unbearably sweet in her concentration. Sometimes she'd smile at him, in passing, or give him a fleeting look, and go on with her work. Yet even when she was not in the same room as he, he could hear her or smell her or simply feel her here, within the walls of his home, invading his life and changing it… forever.

He was scared – people are always afraid of change. He was madly exited, every nerve in his body tingling, his skin eager for her touch, his heart beating wildly, his body at once tense and alert at her closeness or just the thought of her, his head swimming with sweet and shameful visions: of her lips parted and wet and getting close to his face, of him tracing the length of her neck with his finger, of her eyes half-closing at his touch, eyelashes casting long shadows on her flushed cheeks, and of a sigh escaping her lips as he kissed the corner of her mouth. These sensations racked his body and these visions filled his brain despite the fact that he told himself, repeatedly, that he must control himself – he has to get a grip of himself. He was angry with himself – for having brought all this about, for reacting to her so strongly, for building up dreams and emotions that had no place in his life. He was filled with sorrow when he heard her crying, and with shame at having brought her suffering, and distraught at his inability to help her in any way. How could he help her if he was the very reason of her unhappiness? He was childishly happy, his head and heart buzzing with joy whenever he had a glimpse at her. He was uncomfortable; he has almost forgotten how it felt to be in somebody's power, he worked hard to push out of his mind the feeling of helpless despondency, which accompanied him most of his life, yet now it was coming back. Yes, he was powerful and could do all sorts of amazing things. Yet he could do nothing to disengage himself from the influence of this girl. He never felt anybody control him with the dagger – the cursed thing never left his possession, he was perhaps the only Dark One in history to be without a human master, to go completely uncontrolled, and he intended to keep it that way. Yet this girl felt more dangerous and more powerful that the dagger, for he realized, deep in his heart, that he would do anything – anything – just to please her. He felt so pitiful admitting this overwhelming desire to be liked by her. He resented his apparent weakness and he marveled at the light that seemed to fill him from the inside whenever he thought of the light of her eyes.

He thought, wildly, that it was fortunate that she seemed to have a kind heart – were she evil and were she aware of her power over him, she could have moved him towards truly horrible deeds.

He remembered the miller's daughter, uneasily – remembered what a fool he made of himself over her. The situation was somehow alike – she struck him deeply the moment he set eyes on her, and he felt drawn to her, and hopeful and eager. He was sure that she was meant to matter in his life, to influence it seriously. God forgive him, he even thought that _she_ was the girl he was destined to love. The mistake was, perhaps, a natural one – the connection between them was so strong as to obscure its' true nature. Yet it was a mistake nevertheless, and an extremely painful one. And it cast dark shadow on what was happening now. For, though he was deeply and irrationally sure he got it right this time, the very exited blindness of his conviction made him apprehensive. If he were mistaken again, the consequences would be that much worse – that much more dangerous to him. Back then he stood in danger of becoming a very dark person, yet in this darkness he would have remained himself – that's how it felt.

Belle, he was sure, had the power to change him completely, to make him disappear in her and emerge a different person. And that was something he could never allow to happen.

He could never allow himself to be conquered by this girl – for so many reasons. His whole obsession with her could be a mistake. It was, obviously and glaringly, unrequited. And even if his feelings were reciprocated, what would he do with the girl? How can he lose himself for an illusion, for an ephemeral thing existing only in his foolishly hopeful heart?

So, when he was not stealing furtive glances at her or thinking of her or straining his ears to check if she were approaching, so as to have time to adapt a look of somebody engrossed in deepest thought, he busied himself with devising a plan of driving her away from him. Letting her go now was impossible – he would look ridiculous, and anyway he could not survive without her: despite all disturbance the girl caused him the very thought of not having her around was unbearable (how quickly one gets used to good things!).

She had to be here, near him. But she had to be distanced. His 'snarling and sneering' strategy wasn't working too well – Belle just more or less ignored his mood-swings, quietly leaving the room when he was especially obnoxious, and returning later with a cup of tea. Despite her nighttime tears, she didn't seem to really resent him, and she certainly didn't fear him. Now and then he noticed kindness and curiosity in those blindingly blue eyes of hers. So he needed something stronger to drive her away. He needed to remind her that he was not, after all, just an eccentric gentleman with peculiar appearance; he was a powerful and dangerous dark wizard. Unfortunately, there needs to be a reason to demonstrate power and to induce danger and to scare with darkness, and till the thief came to disrupt the peace of the castle, there were none.

This thief was a lifesaver for him. He did do something deeply offensive – stealing magic is very bad business. He behaved insolently. He tried to kill him. And he just didn't like the guy, whose large frame, bearded face and bullying self-assurance reminded him of the pirate that took away his wife, humiliated him and caused him to change, eventually. So, here was a perfect opportunity to show Belle just how horrible her master could be. He needed some outlet to his frustration and excitement – punishing the thief was a perfect chance to let some steam off.

He had the right, the power and the justifications to torture the man, to death if such happened to be the case. Yet he found no joy in doing it. There was no… spontaneity in the way he went about it. He was always mindful of the girl, there outside the dungeon, listening to the screams and being disgusted by him. Yes, he knew that to disgust and frighten her was the exact purpose of the whole exercise, but it felt deeply wrong. He knew he must blacken himself in Belle's eyes, he told himself he must. But he did not want it – his heart wasn't in it. And you can't torture anyone half-heartedly.

He really was not a very violent man. He had a temper, a quick one, he never denied it, and in blindness of fury he was capable of quite horrible things. But that was exactly the point. All his blackest crimes were committed in a fit of some extreme emotion. All his crimes were crimes of passion, impulsive – he acted on impulse to protect his child, to avenge broken love, to save his own life. He found it difficult, indeed nearly impossible, to cold-bloodedly inflict pain on a human being, however detestable. Eliminating offending elements quickly was one thing – dragging on with killing painfully, quite another. The former was almost nice – with every quick kill he felt he was cleaning the world of dirt, purifying it. With the latter he polluted it.

He tried to urge himself by mentally linking this thief with the pirate, yet it didn't help. He still didn't want to _torture_ him. To kill him, may be, but not to torture.

He started thinking that may be it was a bad idea, after all. It would have been more effective, certainly more spectacular, if he just killed the thief in front of her. But now it was too late; if he dragged the fellow back to the living room to kill him, or invited her to witness the deed, it would all look forced and fidgety and unnatural. And anyway, there was no fury in him. He didn't feel really offended by the thief – he felt rather sorry for him, sorry for the big fool who bit off more than he could chew and was now paying a very painful price.

Suddenly he felt he couldn't endure this torture any more. He couldn't stay in this room, filled with stink of blood and sweat and urine and animalistic fear, he couldn't stay and look at this averted tear-stained face, at the big hairy body, hanging limply on chains, shuddering with weakness and pain. If he stayed here a moment longer, he'd be physically sick.

He needed to get away – to get a breath of fresh air and to clean his head.

So he abandoned his unwanted prey, emerged from the torture chamber and faced Belle.

She was glaring at him – disappointedly, sadly.

She still didn't look scared, but she was definitely downcast and apprehensive. 'Good', he thought. 'That's exactly how you should look at me, oh darling, darling girl, sweet and naïve and beautiful and so dangerous to me and to my heart'.

He should have felt satisfied – his plan was working, finally. Yet, uninvited and unwelcome, a memory came to him – a fleeting memory of a moment, just hours ago, when the thief shot him with an arrow and, as it pierced his chest, she gasped in alarm and moved as if to help him. She didn't know he can't be killed by such ordinary means, and she was scared for him.

Oh darling, darling, darling.

He left the castle, but he didn't go far: he just went to the nearby forest and sat on the trunk of a fallen tree, looking – and feeling – like some small creature of the woods, shivering in the gray wetness of the misty day. He felt utterly lost and miserable.

Quarter of an hour later, he saw the thief escape from the castle.

Despite his black mood, he gave a snort. So she let him go – the moment her dark master was out of door, she defied him. Challenged him, at her peril, letting his prisoner escape.

He was not surprised, not at all. He already knew that she was a kind and fearless creature – she proved that when she left her family for him.

Nevertheless he was extremely interested to know what she'd say for herself when her deed was discovered.


	7. Chapter 7

7

The whole incident of the stolen magic wand came as an eye-opener, in more ways than one. She always thought she knew herself pretty well – an illusion in which so many young people indulge. In her, this illusion was even stronger than usually, for she had read a lot of books, recognized herself on many pages and considered their wisdom to be her own. Yet now she learned how raw and intense an emotion could feel when it comes for real, not imagined, but experienced, lived through.

At first, she was simply extremely exited. Something was happening, at last. In the two days spent in the castle she came to think of it as a quiet, rather dull place: she was expecting the Dark One's abode to be slightly more trilling, frankly. Here at last was some action, and dramatic one. She saw her master in a new light – alert and animated, he seemed to move and speak with some malevolent grace, and was quite fascinating to watch. He was so brooding and distanced lately that she forgot the cascade of impish gestures and sneers that he performed in her father's castle. Now here they were, again, only somehow more sinister; he took obvious pleasure in showing off his amazing tricks.

Then, when the thief shot an arrow at him and it darted around the room, finally finding his heart, she felt something entirely new to her. She couldn't name it, couldn't find a word for it, she just felt an incredible anguish. Not fear and shock or compassion towards the victim that can normally be experienced when witnessing a violent scene, but real anguish – panic at the immediate perspective of this man's death, the horror of his imminent loss. She hardly knew him, he was not her lover or her brother, she wasn't even sure she liked him, yet as the arrow flew and as it struck his chest with an awful thud, she screamed, silently: 'No! Not him!' and made a movement as if to shield him.

Then he plucked the arrow from his chest, unharmed, and laughed, and in front of her very eyes was transformed into a monster. There was an awful… coldness about him as he dragged the bewildered thief into the dungeon, giggling on the way. This dry ruthless gaiety was more frightening then anger. She could have understood anger – she grew up at a violent military place. She could have understood if he struck the offender down, killed him there and then. But the evil glee, with which he, looking very much like a spider, took his victim into the darkness to devour, was entirely alien to her. It was truly horrible to watch, and it made her ashamed of her earlier anguish at his peril, of her surge to save him.

This _thing_ doesn't need to be saved. It is unworthy of pity and kindness and any human emotion, for it is not human. Washing the bloody aprons he threw at her, swiping the floor in the living room mechanically, listening to the cries of the tortured thief she castigated herself, mercilessly, for all the illusions she ever had in her life, especially the ones she cultivated about Him. How could she think that this person was interesting, mysterious, sad, and worth knowing? These were the thoughts of an utterly naïve girl. There was nothing to know, nothing mysterious about him. He was simply as dark as he looked. Darker, perhaps. He was a monster. Know him? God forbid – the only thing she could think of was to flee from him.

When he emerged from the torture chamber to give her one more bloodied item to wash, she lied: she said there were no more clean and dry aprons for him to use. She hoped that would make him stop, hoped that the pause would give the sufferer in the cells some respite from pain. She was right; with surprising indifference her master strolled out of the room and out of the castle, as if suddenly losing interest in his victim. The moment he was gone, she run to the dungeon to free the prisoner. He was weak and bloodied, but actually in a better condition that she had expected after the prolonged time her master spent with him. Before making his escape, the thief asked her to join him. She refused, without hesitation. She gave her word to stay in this castle and she had to keep her promise; her earlier thoughts of fleeing were induced by panic and helplessness and now, when she had acted and did help, they were gone. She knew she'd be punished for her act of defiance, but she was a person of honor and it was unthinkable to run away from responsibility. 'Only a thief would suggest me running away', thought the little princess with contempt.

And there was something else; despite his pity-inspiring sufferings, she found she didn't actually like the man too much. He was big and hairy and burly, his eyes were glinting with mischief as soon as he was out of chains, and he strongly reminded her of some knights back at home – crude people with coarse jokes and perpetual odor of sweat about them. She didn't want to go anywhere with such a person, even if to run for her life. She'd rather face the wrath of her menacingly elegant lizard of a master.

With the thief gone, she sat in the corner with a book she found on the desk, and waited for that wrath. She held the book in her hands, but couldn't make out a single word, couldn't even see the letters. She was so tense and apprehensive and desperately tried not to be afraid.

There was kindness in his eyes when he looked at her sometimes, she reminded herself. Surely he wouldn't kill her for an act of kindness.

He came back, he discovered that the thief escaped, he understood at once that she helped him, and he screamed at her a bit. But there was no wrath. There was not a shadow of the horrid, mad coldness that scared her earlier. He _looked _and _sounded_ angry, but she didn't _feel_ his anger.

In fact, it all seemed like an act, again. Like a show of hysterical fury, of which in reality there was no trace. He looked tired and sad, even as he screamed.

She was genuinely baffled. What sort of a man was he, so scary one moment and so theatrically insincere in his anger the next? How could it be possible for a human body to be a vessel for such contrasting qualities? And why did she have a stubborn feeling that the sad and weary person was the real one, or the dominant one, and the monster just sometimes made a temporary, thought frightening, appearance?

He went on ranting about hunting the thief, kept describing, in gory details, what he'd do to him, kept sneering at her for being naïve, and the only thing that sounded true in this whole performance was an exasperated cry: 'No one who steals magic ever, ever has good intentions!' _That_ was serious, and that was spoken from some very painful experience.

And all the time while he was shouting and promising to show her unspeakable horrors she kept looking at him and thinking, irrationally: 'It is not you. All that noise and anger, it is not you. Not the real you. This is what you show to the world, but it is not what's in your heart'.

She even said to him something to that effect. She was speaking about the thief, supposedly, defending the possible purity of his heart. But of course in reality she was talking about him, her master. It was his heart she wanted to discover – passionately, as she suddenly realized, with a curiosity and stubbornness undiminished by her earlier horror.

So, when he announced that he was going to hunt the thief, and kill him, and make her watch the process, she didn't protest. The purpose of their journey didn't matter much, at the moment. The prospect of traveling together and having a chance to talk meant a lot.

She found herself in his magical carriage again. They have traveled in it three days ago, but it seemed that a much longer time has passed. She looked at herself – she was still wearing the same dress and the same cloak as on the night he took her from home, but she felt completely detached from her former life. Her homeland, her family all acquired a dreamy quality, as if they were not real. Her real life, her present and her future, were with this man sitting opposite her – silent, and sad, and strangely kind again.

He looked weary – he looked grey with fatigue, which was an odd thing to think, considering that his skin was grayish-green in color normally. His lips, with their dull golden glint, were set in a resigned line, corners drawn slightly downwards. His eyes were in deep shadow, and their weird reptilian glossiness was not immediately visible; they were intensely human. Looking at him now, in the quietness of this grey day, she suddenly realized what made his eyes so strange – his irises were much larger then those of ordinary people, they were almost obscuring the whites. There was a golden glow in his eyes. He looked so calm and still and melancholy it was impossible to believe that he was going to hunt and kill a man.

She asked him if it was really necessary, to catch this thief; and he insisted it was, and there was again such a forced quality to his protestations that she nearly raised an eyebrow on him.

He was so unconvincing that she had to ask him if there was indeed nothing he cared for in life but his power. She was curious, anyway, and she was acutely aware that this trip was her first opportunity to really talk to him, as she always wanted.

There was a long pause before he answered her. He just looked at her, looked right into her eyes with some unfathomable expression, wistful and sad and resigned and, staring into his eyes, expectantly, she felt a sudden unexplainable movement inside her, a gentlest of pulls, a quiet awakening, as if something stirred in her soul. That's how a woman must feel when a child is stirring under her heart for the first time, she thought.

'You are right. There is something else I love', he said. She felt as if a miracle was about to happen. And then he broke the mood; he made some inner effort, and seemed to close something in himself, and snapped: 'My things!'

She didn't know what she expected him to say, but his brittle irony offended her. She glared at him and said sulkily: 'You really are as dark as people say!'

He grimaced: 'Darker, dearie. Much darker'.

So forced. So unconvincing.

Oh you poor, poor unhappy man. How come you are so lost? What is this shadow that obscures you life?

This balance of moods went on for the rest of the day. She felt so sorry and… protective of him, in his sadness, that she quite forgot his vows of revenge and the dark purpose of their journey, as she forgot her earlier resentment and fear of him. So when they finally found the thief, and her master seemed determined to carry out his revenge, she felt… cheated. And helpless – well, anyone would have felt helpless if they were forcibly put waist-deep into the ground. She watched him preparing for murder, and all previous pangs filled her heart. Oh, no, not him, please let not him do it, please let not him be like that, it is all so wrong. For some reason, it meant a lot to her – she felt that if he did a truly evil thing in front of her eyes, her heart would break. She felt like crying, her eyes were brimming with frustrated tears as she kept saying to herself it was not real, it was an act, again, she was convinced of it – he cannot truly want to do this, he is not that kind of man. That was a really absurd thing to say to herself, for she hardly knew what kind of man he was behind his mask, behind his assumed coldness and constant clowning, but that's what she kept repeating, and not just silently, as before.

She actually said it aloud, when they have discovered that the thief's beloved, healed with the stolen wand, was pregnant: 'You are not a kind of man to leave a child fatherless!'

He went rigid when she uttered the words – he stood with his magical bow, the bow that never missed its' target, stood ready to send an arrow flying into his victim's heart, and he visibly froze in place.

She froze with him, her whole being willing him to be… true to her. To be real. To be the man she wanted him to be, with all her youthful stubbornness and ability to believe the best.

And then he released the string, and the arrow swished through air, and she gave an exasperated cry. But the arrow hit the wooden board of the cart in which the woman was brought to the thief, and lovers escaped unhurt.

Silence hung between her and her master as they watched the pair disappear in the forest.

Than he uncovered her from the ground, and sighed, with majestic aplomb: 'Get back to the carriage. I am bored with this forest'.

She couldn't believe her ears, and she was awash with relief. He was not going to hunt the man further. He let him go. They can go home now, and there is no blood on his hands… She should have been happy with that, but she was young and she was stubborn – she wanted him to actually voice a measure of goodness.

'What happened?' she asked.

'I… missed'. He answered without turning his head.

That was absurd: 'This bow has magic in it, it never misses its' target'.

His shoulder twitched, he gave an irritated sigh, and turned towards her. 'Well, may be the magic has just… worn off'. He stopped, the end of the sentence trailing into whisper, and just looked at her, transfixed. She had no idea what he saw in her that stunned him so. Yet she knew what she saw in him. She saw a man completely open to her, as if holding his heart in his palm, a man full of wonder and tenderness, all kinds of tenderness, from indulgent look of a parent towards a child to sad tenderness of a man hopelessly in love, and all kinds of wonder from awe at her existence to amazement at his own reaction to her. She also saw a truly human face, without a trace of its' actual weirdness. It was as if the expression of his eyes obliterated the rest of his features.

She saw a face of a man she believed him to be, and it was beautiful.

Her heart suddenly filled with joy, and she felt that life had more, much more loveliness and light to offer her – she was all at once happy and exited, convinced of more happiness to come. She wanted to hug the world, which suddenly seemed such a bright place, and quite impulsively she hugged Him.

Oh how still he stood in her embrace. How his breath caught.

Instinctively, she knew it is better to let him go, now. So she withdrew her arms and started walking towards the carriage, as he told her to, and turned on the way, smiling at him: 'Aren't you coming?'

He picked his bow and followed, shaking his head ever so slightly, with tenderness and unbelieving wonderment still filling his eyes.

She walked before him, sensing his gaze on her back, and basked in the glow of what just happened. She couldn't even start to comprehend it, it was so strange and unexpected, but she felt so right when she was holding him close, as if being in his arms was the natural and the only place for her, and his body under the cloak felt so warm, and the skin of his cheek, which she touched with hers briefly, was so surprisingly soft, despite all the golden dust, and she liked his fresh smell and his hair, when she accidentally touched it, was silky.

Her heart danced with happiness, the reason for which she could not really explain.


	8. Chapter 8

8

'One night', he told himself. 'Just one night'. For one night only he would allow himself the agonizing luxury of thinking of her, freely and fully, as if she were his.

When she wished him good night and retreated to her 'room', which, while she walked, he hastily willed into coziness, supplying it with a bed and soft pillows and what-not, he went to his chamber on trembling legs. He literally shook, his whole body overtaken with exited exhaustion such as he never knew. Once there, he sat on the edge of the bed, his palms on the satin coverlet, his nails gently digging into the soft fabric, his head lowered and swimming with joy and wonder and amazement and thrill. His breath was somehow shallow, and he tried to steady it, but found that quite impossible. He was on the verge of hysterics. He was in ecstasy.

He kept seeing her smiling face, up close to his. He kept feeling her touch, and his skin seemed to burn, pleasantly, where her fingers pressed it some moments ago. It was then that he decided to stop blocking his thoughts of her, as he did before. He would think of her, think everything he wants, everything he ever wanted. Just once. Just tonight.

It was a wise decision to make, for he couldn't stop thinking of her, anyway. Not after what passed between them today in the forest. Not after what happened later, when they returned to the castle and, on a sudden whim, he has taken her to the library. He knew she loved books, he had seen how, whenever she had a moment to spare, she would pick some volume from his desk, hoping he wouldn't notice. And he found it incredibly touching that, when he returned home to 'discover' the escape of his prisoner, she was waiting for him with a book. No doubt she dreaded his anger, and she needed comfort, and she found it in some obscure leather-bound volume, which she held gingerly in trembling fingers.

Oh, all that was history now, gone and forgotten – his anger, her fear. If her fingers would tremble with him nearby, it would not be with fear – they would tremble with gentle anticipation of mutual touch.

He knew she loved books, so he expected her to be pleased with his present. Yet nothing could prepare him for her pure joy at it, and for the way she would express her gratitude. She was smiling; she was practically dancing around the room, oblivious to his half-hearted attempts to be stern, she was looking at book-lined walls with eager curiosity, and then she turned to thank him, and grabbed his hand and held it.

He thought his heart would drop out of him. It was such a direct, such an intimate touch. In the woods, where she astounded him with her hug, he felt too shaken to fully grasp its' significance. He still hadn't absorbed it yet, perhaps, at least not fully. In the carriage on the way back she was very quiet, not looking at him much. In fact, she looked so timid that he might have started to think he imagined the whole thing, only, when he looked at her, she sort of glowed. Her skin was luminescent in the dusky interior of the carriage, her cheeks were flushed, and her eyelashes fluttered. Once, she bit her lower lip.

The intensity with which he wanted to touch her, to take her lovely face into his hands and regard it closely, and then to press his lips to her brow, and to kiss her cheeks, and the tip of her nose, and to move, finally, to her lips, was shuttering. Yet how could he do anything like that? How could he be sure that inner glow illuminating her face had anything to do with him? Well, her embrace might have given him a hint, but he was still so, so unsure. She must have touched him out of simple gratitude for his act of mercy. She must have regretted that impulse instantly – she drew away from him so quickly. He repulsed her, oh, surely he did; it couldn't be otherwise.

But then, in the library, she touched him again, deliberately, and held his hand for one brief, yet infinite, moment. The embrace in the woods was, of course, momentous. But then they were fully clothed. That embrace turned his heart and touched his soul. Her brief gesture in the library shook his body, for she touched his bare skin, and she smiled.

Oh the beauty, the wonder of it.

He found himself clasping one of his hands with the other, trying to imitate her gesture. Of course it felt nothing like her, for the main thing about her touch was her skin, the skin that felt so right touching his. Yet he pursued the impulse. He abandoned his hand, and moved his fingers to his cheek. Imagine she had touched him like that, too. Imagine she'd pressed her palm to his face; her small, warm, soft palm, so white and so gentle, what was he thinking of, making her do all these dirty household tasks? There will be no question of that caretaker nonsense, from now on. His princess wouldn't go on cleaning for him. She would care for him… differently.

Imagine she would place a hand on his chest, right over his heart. Imagine he'd catch her fingers, and press them to his lips. Imagine they'd look into each other's eyes, deeply, longingly, and the rest of the world would be lost to them. Imagine him lowering his head, and finding her mouth, her lips parted, slightly wet, for she has licked them nervously, imagine him kissing her; imagine her sighing into his lips. Imagine it, and try to survive the joy.

Imagine her kissing his neck, right inside the shirt-collar. Imagine her hand opening the collar wider, and stroking his skin. Imagine his fingers gripping her shoulders; imagine pulling her closer, pressing her body to his. Imagine her touching his thigh. Imagine her touching his groin. Imagine him hardening in her fingers. Imagine desire, blinding and blazing, filling his body with dull ache, incurable until he held her in his arms, leaving him breathless.

There was no need to _imagine_ that – he was hard, almost painfully so, and he could hardly breathe.

Imagine the weight of her body, pressed to his, pulling him down to the bed, embracing. Imagine his face, lifted up to hers, all taut with his yearning. Imagine her face, flushed, mellow, her eyes gentle and serious, her lips swollen from kissing. Imagine tracing his lips down her neck.

He fell backwards on his bed, his feet on the floor, his hand on his chest, his fingers pressed against solar plexus, trying to still the heart pounding against his ribcage. He stared at the ceiling, unseeing. His mind was full of her; his eyes saw her, only her, in his mind.

Imagine her hair, falling on his face. Imagine her breasts, very white, with small dark nipples, exposed, hardening under his gaze. Imagine pressing his face to her breasts, and licking a drop of sweat. Imagine touching her back and her backside. Imagine her hands on his back and his backside. Imagine him moaning.

No need to _imagine_ that – he was moaning. He was delirious with desire, inflamed with it, he was quite outside his body, yet extremely conscious of it. His left hand was pressed to his chest. His right hand was on his erection.

Imagine her body, naked, melting in his embrace. Imagine her damp skin. Imagine his fingers tangled in the short hair between her legs. Imagine her gasping, biting her lower lip. Imagine her body spread under him. Imagine the smell, sweet-sour smell of her arousal. Imagine her wet, for him. Imagine her eyes closing as she listens to the trembling inside her. Imagine being inside her, feeling this trembling with his skin.

Imagine exploding in her, dying and coming back to life, blinded by joy, ecstatic.

There was no need to _imagine_ that – he has come, lying on the bed fully clothed, only his shirt opened, and his fly. He was still wearing his boots.

He stayed like that for some time, his eyes slowly focusing on the room around him, his breathing returning to normal. His heart was full of light. He thought, vaguely, that he should probably have been ashamed of himself, of what he'd done. But he felt no shame. He felt exhilarated, and happy, he felt reborn and strangely… fresh, even in his soiled clothing.

He loved her, and he thought of her with passion. Where there's love, there is no shame.

_He loved her_. Oh how strange and how sweet these words sounded, when he said them to himself. What complete certainty they transported. What new meaning they gave to the world. How they changed his place in the world: he was no longer separate from it, he was included, embraced, for She _was_ the world, and she was inside him and all around him. It was so in his thoughts only for now, that's true. But it was going to be so in reality, too. It was meant to be. It was his destiny, and hers.

He thought, suddenly, of the only woman in his life that made him feel strong passion before, and for the first time in many years he thought of her kindly. She must have suffered. She must have felt that something was wrong between them. She was denied the bliss he felt today.

He remembered his confusion back then, when he knew Cora. His attraction to her was so strong, their minds so alike that he was practically sure it was love, and puzzled why it didn't transform him into something bigger and better, as it was supposed to. Now, when he was experiencing the real thing, it was unbelievable that he could have mistaken the surge of lust and the war of wills that bound him to Cora with that dazzling abandonment in a person that Belle's very being promised him. Cora was too much alike him to be his true love. You cannot love a person that is too much like you. You know yourself too well to fear yourself or to wonder at yourself, and there has to be great fear of the unknown to inspire love, and great awe at the possibility of a miracle. There have to be, in one's soul, opposition, contrast and danger of destruction of self to create real tension and real passion, and there has to be wonderment at the unattainable ideal to install humility without which no love is complete. People are selfish; they are only concerned with themselves. When we love, it is the only time in our life when we find something outside us that matters more that we do to ourselves. The object of love is so powerful, so great and so dazzling that one needs to become one with it – to devour it, or to be dissolved in it. Yet destruction is not a way of true love. One must disappear in the loved one, humbly – then both can change and become a united whole. Cora would have devoured him, out of sheer fear that he might devour her. She would have never opened up to him enough to embrace him.

Belle would embrace him, because she is so unlike him. Everything in them is different, from their ages to their souls – hers so radiant, his so troubled. Like the sun rising over the mountains, she would flood his life with light – generous, kind, all-forgiving, hopeful girl, so young, so beautiful, so _his_.

He did tell himself, briefly, that he must be demented – he has built such a mountain of dreams out of a single touch. Wasn't he like a hero of an old fable he once heard, the old man who has read too many heroic novels and imagined himself a knight, and started riding around fighting windmills, taking them for giants, and met some peasant girl whom he believed to be the noble lady he vowed to serve and love eternally? He even called her by a special name, and everybody laughed at him. Wasn't he doing the same thing now – could it be that the girl he has found was just an ordinary girl, and it was he who invested her with all the wonders of universe? After all, he was mistaken before. Perhaps he was mistaken again?

No, he was not. He knew how magic works, and between him and Belle, there was magic. She might have been an ordinary girl till he came into her life, but now she was transformed. It was as if, like the mad knight from the fable, he has given her a new name, only in their case the spell worked and she changed and he changed and they were bound together.

He smiled into the ceiling, fingering his open shirt absentmindedly, dreaming of the next morning and of all the mornings of the world yet to come. He would see her, soon. He would smile at her, and she would smile at him. He'd be kind and light with her. He would give her things. He would shower her with presents. He would be oh, so gentle with her. She would never, never again cry because of him.

He would take it slowly, of course – she would think him mad if, after all his attempts to keep her at bay, he'd suddenly start wooing her ardently. He'd be much the same, at first, only he wouldn't mean all his… meanness. He'd joke with her and tease her and show her interesting things, and she'd smile at him, and touch his hand, occasionally, and they would talk – they never talked yet, not really, and there are so many things he wants to know about her. And if she ever asked him, again, if there is anything else that he loves in the world except his power, he would look into her magical eyes and say: 'Yes, there is something else that I love. You'.

He would take his time wooing her, he is in no hurry, he has all the time in the world, but he will woo her, eventually. And then the reverie in which he let himself drown tonight will come true. She will be enclosed in his embrace, as she is, even now, enclosed in his heart.

He had quite forgotten his resolution to dream of her just once, tonight. He was busy making plans. He was also extremely exhausted – he couldn't make himself get up and undress properly and wash. So he kicked off his boots, and wiggled out of his clothes, half-rising from the bed, and then fell on top of the coverlet, face down, giggling into his pillow.

He was idiotically happy.

He fell asleep smiling.


	9. Chapter 9

9

Events of the day left her emotionally exhausted. So much has happened. In the course of one day she managed to get exited, alarmed, frightened, disgusted; than she had a chance to feel heroic, stupid, than she was fascinated, compassionate, disappointed, than frightened again. And after that, she felt… disturbed, and exited again, in a different way, and unexplainably happy. More then anything, she now felt _closer_ to her mysterious master than ever before. In the course of this day, he has shown her some sides of himself that she would never have guessed existed. There was warmth, and genuine kindness, and openness, and vulnerability – as well as cruelty and coldness, which seemed very much at odds with the rest of him. Or perhaps the good things were at odds with the bad ones? She was confused – she didn't know what to think of him. And she didn't know what to think of herself, and her inexplicable reaction to the two occasions when they touched. She felt… happy when she touched him, there in the woods, and then later, in the library, when she held his hand expressing her gratitude for his very generous gift.

He knew that she loves books – when did he noticed that, she wondered?

His hand was warm and soft and it trembled when she touched it.

She felt strangely… powerful when she felt that shaking. But than she went back to her 'room', and on the way had to remind herself of her servile position in relation to him.

Yet, when she entered her cell, she found it transformed. Where once there was a mat of straw, there was a bed now. Where once there was a jar of water, now stood a vanity table with brushes and a hand-mirror and some scents.

One the coverlet of the bed a new dress was spread. It was a simple working dress, blue in color, very unpretentious, but it was pretty, and the fabric was soft, and she felt disproportionally touched by the fact that it was there. He must have noticed that her yellow dress was getting ruined – why, he did a lot of damage himself when he dug her into the ground. He must have felt guilty, and decided to compensate her.

He must have cared for her to give her a present.

Oh, she was so confused. She didn't know what to think of him anymore – in the course of the day he seemed to be sort of… transformed. She wondered if it had anything to do with her, whenever she said or did something to effect the change. She didn't know what to think of herself, and her mixed reactions to him.

With a sigh, she undressed, gratefully casting the soiled and spoiled yellow silk dress on the floor. Thank God she wouldn't have to put that on anymore. She climbed into bed, which was very soft and comfortable, and anticipated a peaceful night. Surely after such a tiring day she would sleep like a baby.

She didn't. All night she kept fidgeting in her bed, falling into slumber, then coming out of it again, dreaming of him, scary and sad, menacing and touching, cold and open, always changing, never simple and understandable. She kept thinking of him, sleeping or awake. She kept feeling his touch. She kept hearing his malicious giggle. She kept seeing his weird eyes filled with tenderness. She felt the warmth of his hand, yet she also felt the cold breath of the wind from the unknown terrain her life has become when she linked it with his.

She woke up earlier than usually – she just couldn't stay in bed any longer. She wasn't tired anymore, but she didn't feel fully rested, either – she was strangely alert, as if in some suspended state, expectant, thought she had no idea was she was actually expecting. The practical side of her told her that the best cure for her strange condition was work, so she went to the kitchen to make a fire and prepare tea for him. When everything was ready, she looked at the clock and realized he wouldn't need his tea, for he wouldn't be up yet – he was not a lark; he never rose early, perhaps because he usually worked late at night.

It was amazing how things connected with him had already become customary to her. He 'never' woke early; he 'usually' worked late… She has been here for three days, for goodness sake, why did she feel that she has been here forever? And why was that feeling agreeable to her?

She shook her head – she was in no condition to think straight, not now. Suddenly she realized she had some free time on her hands, and this unexpected freedom left her baffled. It seemed that she already acquired a habit of building her life around her duties and around her master. Yet now she had a chance to be her own mistress, again, even if for just a couple of hours, and she was not sure what she'd do. Giving it some thought, she decided that she would employ that time by having a look around the castle. It was so vast; there were some corridors and rooms she never entered yet. There were many, many things hidden here – well, until yesterday she didn't even know there was a library in the castle. There were many things here, and perhaps some of them would lead her to discover more about her master. She was still so, so curious about him – the more she learned, it seemed, the more enigmatic he became.

Feeling very adventurous, she decided to explore the first floor of the castle – she was more or less familiar with the ground floor already, as the majority of the rooms he used (and that she, therefore, had to clean) were there. Now she ignored the hall, the dining room and the living room, and went up the wide staircase, still rather dusty – she didn't have time to clean it properly yet.

The atmosphere in the corridor upstairs was gloomy. The ceiling was unnaturally high, like in the nave of a cathedral. Walls were decorated with obscure tapestries, so dark and dusty it was impossible to discern their subjects. There were cobwebs hiding in the peaks of narrow arch-shaped niches lining the walls. Suits of armor loomed from dark corners like ghosts. There was not a single window in the whole corridor, and not many doors either. Her steps echoed in the deserted dusk of the place. She wondered at this strange passage, seemingly leading nowhere, and shivered at the cold that seemed to hang here permanently. An uneasy thought crossed her mind: she embarked on this journey around the castle hoping to discover something new about her master. Well, if this corridor was anything to go by, there were things about her master she'd much rather left undiscovered. Seized with sudden apprehension, remembering all the fairy tales about curious maidens that went one door too far in their desire to learn about dark masters of dark castles, she almost resolved to turn back, when something caught her eye. It was a narrow stripe of light crossing the dusty stone-flagged floor. It came from the door on the right-hand side of the corridor. That door was slightly ajar.

Guided by curiosity, silently praying that there would be no dead bodies of previous wives, or some such things, behind this door, she walked on and peered through the crack.

After the gloom of the corridor, the room looked almost disappointingly normal. It had high ceiling, decorated with gilded carvings, and walls lined with dully-red fabric. It had a window and, unusual though it seemed in the castle where all the curtains were always tightly drawn, this window was not curtained at all – the frame was filled with stained glass, and the sun passing through colored pieces cast pretty shadows on the carpeted floor. Moreover, the window was opened – not widely, just a crack, yet the air in the room was fresh, and not with the heart-sinking chill, as in the corridor, but with crispy freshness of the winter morning.

It was a lovely room, and one she would never expect to find in the Dark Castle at all.

She opened the door wider, wanting to have a closer look at things, yet barely walked in when she stopped short, stifling a frightened gasp. It was her master's chamber, and he was in it. Among the things she could not see from the threshold was a bed – a huge one, with velvet canopy and gilded headstand.

Her master was lying on the bed, face down.

He was completely naked. There were no blankets, and no nightdress; he just slept there, his face half-buried in the pillow, his body entirely opened for view. His clothes were scattered on the floor in total disorder.

She blushed, deeply.

She had seen naked men before – her father's castle was a rough place, especially in the time of war, and his knights and troopers didn't much care for modesty as they went about washing, fell asleep drunk and woke later to shag the serving-maids. She has seen men, burly and muscular military folk, parading their unsavory flesh around the castle, and, as any teenage girl, she was curious. Every time she saw them, she thought: I am going to marry one of them one day; I might as well have a general idea of what to expect.

Yes, she had seen naked men before. But He was something different altogether. She wasn't even sure the word 'man' should be used to describe him.

He was _green_. Truly, wholesomely green. She felt stupid to be surprised at that – she saw his face, she saw his hands, yet she somehow never assumed he was actually green, all over.

He was very thin – brittle, almost. His spine peaked as a fishbone, or like a mountain ridge, his ribs where countable, his shoulder blades protruding.

His skin glittered with golden sparks in the cold winter sunlight.

Posed like that, with arms spread, one leg straightened, other half-bent, he looked exactly like a lizard resting on the wall. She glanced furtively closer and was relieved to find that he didn't have a tail. There were impossibly touching gentle dips on the small of his back.

His mossy hair was rumpled, but she could see his face in profile – the long nose, the sensitive lips, the long eyelashes.

She knew she shouldn't stare, that she shouldn't be in the room at all. Yet she couldn't take her eyes off him.

He was so _different_ – so unlike anything, anybody – any body – she has seen before. So different from other people; so different from her. He was really, truly inhuman – he was from different species. When she looked at him like that, it was impossible to believe that he could talk and think as men do, that he felt warm to the touch. She had to remind herself that his skin was warm; as he lay there she was sure that if she touched him he'd feel cold, as a snake. Touch him? She'd never dare to do that again. She was overwhelmed with realization of their total alienation. It wasn't fear – there was nothing to fear in this reposed figure. She just felt that these two types of… flesh, hers and his, could never, never come into contact, never be reconciled.

Yet, she realized with horrified surprise, she wanted to touch him.

He was so _delicate_. The bony spine, the thin limbs, the golden glow of his skin – he looked so fragile, so perfectly shaped – it was impossible not to admire him, as one would admire a wild thing in a menagerie.

He was beautiful. He was scary. He was completely from a different time and space. He looked like some heraldic beast.

She wondered what place could have bourn him, what force could have shaped him – she couldn't think of any natural way such a creature could have come into being.

And than, for the first time since they've met, she thought of magic. She knew he was a wizard, of course, a dark wizard, and she sort of assumed his looks were part of his… occupation, a costume donned to look the part. Yet now she thought – what if he does not only create magic, what if he himself was created by magic? What if there was a force that changed him, endowing him with his power, and shaping his appearance to manifest the magic that flowed through him?

She stared at the bizarre creature that was her master, looked at his reptilian skin and clawed hands, she remembered his filmy eyes, and the strangely human look that sometimes entered them, hinting at the man he probably was once, the man she saw so clearly when she embraced him in the forest, and she thought: 'It couldn't have been good, this magic that changed him. It must have been a curse'.

A strange chill came over her at this thought. It was as if the deserted wilderness of her dreams had emerged, briefly, in reality, and polluted this bright and beautiful morning with grey, doomed bleakness.

He sighed, there on the bed, and made as if to turn over, slowly waking up, shading his eyes with his hand, but shameless otherwise, oblivious of the relaxed nakedness of his slumber.

She barely stopped herself from squeaking, and fled the room.

She ran all the way down to her cozy kitchen, not caring if he heard her steps as she run. Her cheeks were hot, her breathing was troubled, and she wished she could forget what she saw and what she thought.

She blushed to think she'd have to face him, soon.

She heard him up and moving, upstairs – now that she knew where his room was, she was acutely aware of him _being there_. She heard his steps. She imagined she heard water splashing as he took his bath. Thinking of his inhumanly shaped lizard body standing erect in the bath, of his green and gilded skin glistening in the sunlight as the water run down his limbs and his back, as he splashed himself from the bucket, she blushed again.

She tried to distract herself with making tea.

When he came down half an hour later, looking fresh and dapper in his tight pants and narrow waistcoat and frilled shirt, and unusually cheerful, she didn't dare to look him in the eye. He didn't seem to mind – it seemed that his good mood had nothing to do with her. But then again, why should it?

He smiled at her as she served tea, studiously avoiding his eyes. The pattern of the carpet suddenly held an amazing interest for her.

He must have had some sixth sense about her uneasiness – he didn't sit down at the head of the table, as was his custom, but moved around the room restlessly, as in a kind of dance, always getting near her. She could have sworn he was teasing her, subtly. When he finally approached the tea tray, he picked the cup she chipped on the first morning, and very gently tapped it with one of his talons. It made a lovely clinking sound.

She blushed again.

His issued one of his indescribable giggles, and actually clapped his hands.

'This new dress suits you uncommonly well', he said.

She had to lift her eyes, then – to look at him, to say 'thank you'.

'The color matches your eyes', he added as an afterthought. As if he has not given her the dress; as if the whole thing surprised him.

He was obviously enjoying himself. He looked like an incredibly mischievous child. He looked like an imp. And suddenly, watching him in his unreasonably gleeful mood, she forgot all her misgivings and all her fantasies of chilly darkness. She found him immensely likable.

Perhaps his cheerful mood was infectious. She felt like clapping her hands, too. Or blushing again. Or both.

Feeling she was just one step away from making a fool of herself, she escaped hastily, mumbling something about housework, and sat in the kitchen for a while, brooding at her strange reactions to him, wondering at the sheer impossibility of the man. What happened to the snappy monster that ordered her around and glared at her? Where did this playful tease come from? How soon will his nasty mood return? And how was she supposed to reconcile these different sides of him in her mind?

Oh, why was she so _confused_ about him?

Back there in the room where she left him she heard the gentle smooth rattle of his spinning wheel, and his laughter – soft and somehow dreamy.


	10. Chapter 10

10

He woke up with a feeling that she was with him – he seemed to sense her near, to catch her scent in the air, to hear her light steps. He smiled, without opening his eyes. It was an illusion, of course, but one he didn't want to chase away. Still not opening his eyes, he flipped over and lay on his back, stretching his limbs, getting used to the new sensation in his body. He felt happy, and it was a physical thing. He hadn't felt so happy in years.

He never felt so happy in his life.

He listened to her scent in the air some more. It felt so real it was uncanny. How powerful his attraction to her must be – how strong the pull, how binding the love. He opened his eyes and contemplated colored sunbeams falling into his room through stained glass, but instead of pretty shades he saw her face, her graceful head sitting on a slender neck, and her gentle shoulders. In his mind's eyes, she bit her lip, and lowered her gaze, blushing.

His body stirred, reacting to the vision, and for a minute he was tempted to dream of her some more, like he did last night. But than he stopped himself; what was the point of dreaming of her when he could go down and see her?

He sat on the bed, gingerly, than stood up and attended to his morning toilet. He chose his clothes carefully. He wanted to make an impression – a _nice_ impression.

Ready to go down, he moved towards the door and stood there, sniffing the air. He was not mistaken, earlier – it was not an illusion; she had really been here. She must have wandered into this part of the castle, somehow.

She must have seen him.

He turned around, surveying the room – his clothes scattered on the carpet, his bed with a crumpled coverlet – the bed on which he slept naked. The picture was… telling.

She must have seen _everything_.

Oh, well. What was done was done. He was not going to bother to be ashamed. She shouldn't have been snooping around, his curious little princess. She'd have to face the consequences now.

He went down giggling, he faced her smiling, and he teased her, gently. She was bashful, and blushing, exactly as he pictured her, but generally her mood seemed to be light, too. She certainly didn't show any signs of regret at touching him the day before.

When she escaped to the kitchen he sat spinning at his wheel, and his head was spinning with happy expectations and current excitement.

For the next few days it went on in more or less the same fashion. He carefully stuck to his resolution to take things slowly, so as not to frighten her with any unwanted attentions or unduly pressure. He didn't say anything directly, didn't approach her or tried to touch her. He just stayed near her as much as possible, finding himself chores in the same rooms, and he talked to her; he smiled to her, and basked in her answering smiles. He also did little things for her; unbeknown to her, he started to will some of the filth in the castle away, so that every day she found her household duties that much easier, and she now had more time to rest and to read in the library, in which she delighted. He also gave her small presents – he didn't _give_ them to her, of course, not directly, but every night she'd find something pleasant in her room: a ribbon, a comb, a pair of slippers. It warmed his heart to see her wearing these little things the next morning; it felt as if he touched her.

He had to go away sometimes, of course, for he had things to do – his arrangements with the curse were entering final stages. Yet he tried to finish everything as quickly as possible, for his only real wish right now was to get back to her. He found it a bit difficult to concentrate on his immediate tasks. When he visited the Queen, for example, favoring her request to disguise her so she could walk among the people and learn what they really thought of her (part of the plan, of course – she had to know her people hated her, had to become desperate, had to start thinking that no one will ever love her; poor Regina, he sometimes felt sorry for her. She really believed she has lost all hope for love – how silly of her. There is always, _always_ hope for love, look at him, who would have believed that he would be so smitten?), he was hardly listening to her. He kept examining things on her dressing table, picking a brush there and a scented box here, thinking he must get something like that for Belle. Once he noticed Regina looking at him oddly – she caught him checking his looks in the hand mirror, adjusting the lace at his collar and making faces at himself. He couldn't help it – he kept thinking of Her, kept trying to see himself with her eyes, kept wandering in his thoughts back to the castle, wishing he was already there, with her, chatting happily of all sorts of things.

He was bursting with joy – he became excitement personified, and in this delirious glow of hope and love he had made a mistake that cost him… everything.

When Regina, disappointed and bitter, came back to him, still disguised as a peasant girl, he made a quip – one of his silly quips that Belle seemed to quite enjoy now. He pretended not to recognize the Queen, to take her for a servant looking for position. And he told her: 'I already have a maid. A very promising girl, actually'. And all his excitement, all his secret happiness sounded in his voice – oh, so clearly.

That set Regina's mind working. That made her pay attention to his strange moods.

That made her learn more about the girl he kept in the castle, and to draw conclusions on which to act in her perpetual attempts to outdo her teacher.

Yet he didn't notice this incident, not at the time. It slipped his mind the moment it was over – as soon as Regina left, he went back to Belle, who was sitting in the living room with some sewing, and sat contentedly at his wheel, spinning and thinking happy thoughts.

It was in a very similar situation, as he was sitting at the wheel and she was busy with domestic work, that an episode that changed his whole attitude to her took place.

Belle was on the ladder, trying to take off the curtains, which she probably wanted to wash: with his subtle invisible cleaning her daily tasks were getting too easy, and she ambitiously set herself new and harder ones. He was spinning, casting her occasional glances – the skirt of her new dress was rather short (he made it that way with subconscious deliberation, most probably), and it showed her pretty ankles to great advantage, especially now, when she was on the ladder, and he just _had_ to look at them. She kept glancing at him, too, each look filling his heart with gladness. At some point her curiosity got the better of her; distracted from her task, she asked him: 'Why do you spin so much?'

Absentmindedly, he spoke the truth. 'I like watching the wheel. It helps me forget'.

Of course she wanted to know more, instantly. He gave her an opening; he already knew she was curious, and he should have known better than to speak honestly; but the words were already out, and, unlike his usual banter, they hinted at something serious, and she gave him a puzzled frown. 'Forget what?'

For a second he sat there, thinking. 'I just might tell her', he thought. He just might have told her the truth – what he really was, what made him the way he was, what it was like to be him. He just might have told her about his son – he might have confessed his guilt and spelled out his hopes. Perhaps she had had enough of his silly prattling and giggling. Perhaps she deserved the truth. Perhaps she would have been able to take it. After all, she was such a kind and brave girl, and she seemed to like him.

Yet he felt it was too early to burden her with the darkness of his life. And he was afraid that if he did tell her, and she wouldn't have been ready, he'd lose her – just like that.

So he made a quip. 'I guess it worked!' he said, and giggled. He was immediately rewarded with her laughter – affectionate and indulgent, as if she were conversing with a child.

Ah, it was much better like that. It was much better for her to treat him as if he was mentally deficient that to run away from him in horror.

The mood that made him happy at the wheel was broken, and he stood up to watch her work – and her ankles – more closely. And a good thing he did that, too, for the moment he approached her she tugged at the nailed-down curtain too hard, and it came off the rail, and the girl of his dreams literally fell into his arms.

She nested in his embrace, holding his neck, smiling at him in happy embarrassment.

He held her and looked into her eyes, completely stunned.

God knows he imagined her in his arms, often enough – every night, in fact. Not only at nights, to be honest. Yet it was one thing to think of her – to imagine her warmth and softness and the feel of her skin – and to actually hold her. Her closeness hit him like a ton of bricks. He felt her weight and her roundness, he could smell her hair; he saw small beads of perspiration on her brow, and her smiling mouth was just inches from his. She was there, in his arms, she was very close and very real, and she was far, far more beautiful now, in the flood of sunlight from the opened window, then she ever was in his wildest dreams.

Her breasts were heaving, gently, at the thrill of her lucky escape and perhaps – perhaps – at his closeness. He only had to bend his head a little to tear her dress away with his teeth and kiss them.

He could have carried her into his bedroom, straight away. Ah, forget the bedroom – he could have had her right there, on the living-room floor, tangled in the fallen curtains.

Instead, he just kept staring.

The moment stretched.

Finally she thanked him, prettily. He said it was nothing. He put her on the floor.

She was saying something about hanging the curtains back, and he did answer something appropriate to that, but he wasn't listening, not really. All his will-power was directed on one purpose – to get away from the room, as quickly as possible, before he lost last dredges of self-control. As soon as he was out of the door, he stood with his back to the wall, the muscles of his stomach clenching, his head thrown back, gasping. Then he bent down, grasping his knees with his hands, his body heaving with deep sob-like breaths. It didn't help. Nothing could have helped.

He wanted her as he never wanted anybody in his life, ever. He was racked with desire.

He was _burning_.

Slowly, he made way to his room, stumbling all the time, his hands grazing the walls, searching for support – his body was painfully incapacitated with want. At the corridor on the first floor he had to stop, for a moment, and to double over clasping his knees again – he could not go on walking, he wanted her so.

He made it to his room, somehow. He locked the door, carefully. He collapsed on the bed, tearing his clothes apart, casting them away.

No gentle reveries, this time, no sweet imaginings. No thoughts of looking into her eyes and hearing her whispers. He _lusted_ for her. He was possessed with ruthless animalistic need. The beast, her father called him? Well, screw her father. She was _his_, his only, and he wanted her, and he would have her. Soon.

His erection was painful; his whole body was in pain. He took himself in his hand. No closing his eyes, this time – he stared into the space before him, seeing her naked, seeing her legs spread apart for him, seeing her head thrown back, her breasts peaking, her hair falling over her shoulders wildly, seeing her hands clutching the sheets, feeling her tightening her virginal body against his attack, feeling her give way, hearing her moan.

He came quickly, with a scream. He lay on the bed, his breath shallow, his body still pulsating with desire, still just as ready to ravish her.

He had to do everything again. And then again.

Finally, he lay still, trembling all over, his body stained, the bed stained, and the room full of rancid smell of solitary lust.

He felt an awful chilliness come over him. Too exhausted, too _empty_ to move he fumbled with a blanket, pulling it over his shaking body. He lay on his side, curling into foetal position, clutching his hands to his chest. His hands smelled of him, they were stained with him, and he couldn't stand it; he had to wipe his hands on the blanket, and then curled back into the pitiful shivering ball.

He didn't feel ashamed of what he'd done, not exactly. He was too stunned for that. He was terrified to realize that he could be so possessed with desire. He became accustomed to being omnipotent – and here he was, completely defeated by his own body. He lost control. He behaved – he felt – like an animal. He never knew it was in him, this violent need.

Just imagine him losing control with her – imagine him really doing those things to her.

At the thought, his body stirred, again. He groaned, and closed his eyes in desperation.

It was one thing to love her, and quite another to want her with such devastating force. He could not risk scaring her. He could not risk _losing himself_ to such extent. He must distract himself from that obsession with her body. Goodness, she only touched him twice, and she fell into his arms by accident – how could he build such a terrible passion out of these trifle things, how dared he to stain her with such violent desires? She would be shocked, if she knew; she would be disgusted. He was insulting her, debasing her with such outbursts. She was not just a body he desired, she was a person, a lovely and radiant girl that enchanted him with her mind as well as with her beauty. Didn't she? He must make an effort to restrain himself. Yet now he was too shaken with what had happened, he couldn't think. He would work something out tomorrow.

God, he'd have to face her tomorrow, how would he be able to do that?

He felt close to tears, and wondered why. It must have been sheer nervous exhaustion.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep.

He saw her face, and felt comforted.


	11. Chapter 11

11

In the following weeks she didn't see much of him. His volatile mood seemed to change again. It was not that he became cold and angry as in the first days of her stay in the Dark Castle; he was still polite, kind and smiling when they met. But he has somehow distanced himself from her. He seemed to become suddenly… shy. When she cleaned, he was rarely ever in her way. He spent most of his time in his workroom – the one where he made his potions and received mysterious visitors (there was an eccentric young man with a huge hat-box, for example, and others whom she didn't have a chance to observe properly). She was not allowed to go into this room – he said, abruptly, that there was too much she could disturb if she went there, and any cleaning that was necessary there he would do himself. So, he stayed in this room, or out of the castle on mysterious errands. She was by herself a lot of time, and she felt lonely.

She started missing her family; while he was near, she barely thought of them, but now she was sometimes wondering how were they, whenever they missed her, and why didn't they enquire about her. She did promise to go with the Dark One forever, that was true – but surely that didn't make her dead? They might have sent her a letter. They might have visited – surely he would have allowed a letter or a visit? Oh well, perhaps they were too scared of him. That was only natural to be scared of him if you didn't really know him. Even she was a little scared of him before he started to show her different sides of himself, and she realized that there was much more to him then awful power, strange appearance and sneering manner and devilish tricks.

As she strolled around the castle, looking into different rooms and wondering at amazing and incredible things he collected (most of them magical, she supposed, though she couldn't fathom what could be magical about a couple of ugly marionettes, for example), she was trying to define, for herself, how she saw him. She thought of his mood swings, his baffling manner to sneer when he was angry and to disguise his kindness with abruptness. She thought of his infectious gaiety and his chilling gloom. She thought of his disturbing alien look, and of his grace. She thought of his duality, of his manner to constantly change; she couldn't help feeling that he was a man divided… at least in two, and probably into larger number of parts. She thought of his tender eyes, and of the way his body trembled when he touched her – when she fell from the ladder, for instance, and he caught her, he shook all over before he put her on the floor. She thought of his manner to lock himself in his room for hours on end, and of his stifled moans she sometimes heard from behind the door; and she thought of his manner to come sometimes into the room where she was sewing or reading and to sit there quietly, not talking, but obviously enjoying her company. At such moments her heart went out to him. She felt like coming over and sitting on the floor by his feet; she imagined how she'd lean her head on his knees, and he would, perhaps, stroke her hair. She had no idea where this image came from – nothing, but nothing in his behavior suggested he'd welcome such an action, and for her to actually do something like that would have been strange indeed. But that was what the practical Belle told herself. The dreaming Belle felt that to sit with him in such closeness and compassionate silence would have been a perfectly right thing to do. It would have comforted her in her loneliness, and it would have consoled him in his mysterious grief.

His sadness – that was what she felt was the main thing about him, the first thing she thought of when she pictured his face in her imagination or glimpsed him in reality. He was always, always sad, even when he was laughing – especially when he was laughing. When he thought that she wasn't looking at him, or forgot that she was around (it happened sometimes when he was busy spinning), a look of such complete desolation would come over him. His shoulders would sag, his lips droop, his eyes close as if he was deadly tired and it took him extreme effort to go on living. Then he would concentrate again, pick himself up almost literally, and resume normal routine with a look of inner determination. She wondered what was it that helped him get his resolve back. She wondered what was it that oppressed him so heavily.

She kept getting back to the thought that visited her on the morning when she sneaked into his room and saw him sleeping – the one about the curse. When she first started to observe him closely, she thought that his erratic manner was a mask he wore to hide his true nature. Now she came to think it was not entirely voluntary in him. He could not be one way, or the other. He could not disengage two parts of himself from one another. There was a man in him, and… that _other thing_, inhuman. The man seemed kind and gentle. The thing felt alien and incomprehensible; there was no way of telling how it operated, what it thought and how it would react. The man was attractive and warm. The thing was also beautiful in some terrifyingly magnificent way. Both man and… beast were inseparable, and suffered from that; the beast felt chained, the man repressed. He was forced to be like he was, forced by something great and evil. Yes, evil: for if it were not evil he would have been happy as he was. And he wasn't happy – one look at him told her as much. He was in pain, and she felt a great urge to help him – as one would want to comfort a suffering animal or a man that lost his bearings.

She wished there was a way to help – to comfort him, to free him from his burden, to save from the dark shadow that seemed to be covering his life. Standing in the vast wilderness, which she imagined her life to be, she wished she could reach out and take his hand, so that they would cross the rocky desert together.

Was it too ambitious to believe that he needed her? Wasn't she getting ideas above her station? After all, she was just an ordinary girl, a silly princess from a little kingdom. And he was… what he was.

She didn't know, and she didn't know how to learn. There were no appropriate books on the subject. God knows she tried to find out – she scanned the books in the library, looking for all sorts of magical legends and tales. The story of the Dark One wasn't among them: she had no way of knowing where he came from or when it happened. It seemed he was always there – people always talked about 'The Dark One', for thousands of years. Could it be about him? Was he immortal – eternal? How old was he?

She was too shy to ask him directly, she didn't want to offend him with impertinence. She was afraid to hurt him by asking about his 'normal' side, therefor inferring that something was wrong with him. He was a proud thing, she felt.

One day, walking around the castle, she came into one of the small rooms in the Northern tower. It was a strange room, not really belonging to the place. There was a small bed here, and a very battered rocking horse – an old child's toy. And there was some clothing – a tunic and a pair of shoes, small, as if for a boy. It couldn't have been His clothing – he was a slight man, but not that slight.

The things in this room looked unbearably sad.

Her curiosity was aflame. She felt that until she learned the mystery of this child, she'd never know peace. And, without learning this mystery, she'd never understand her master.


	12. Chapter 12

12

He couldn't stay away from her forever, however much he tried after the incident with the ladder and his frightening over-reaction to it. It was not possible from a purely practical point of view – they had to meet from time to time; he'd happen to need something in the room where she worked, and than they'd meet at meals. And it was not possible – unbearable – for him to stay away from her, for all the selfish reasons: his longing, his desire, his need to see her bright face and thus to get the confirmation of the fact that the sun has risen; his yearning to be comforted by her presence. He has grown… dependent on her. He was in pain when he was alone, by himself, and that pain eased only when she was near him. He had to be near, even if just to look at her, otherwise he couldn't make himself go on breathing, couldn't find the resolve to do what he was doing – to complete what he had started.

He had a task in life – a mission. His whole existence for hundreds of years (goodness, was it really that long?) was dominated by a single purpose – to find his son. For all the terrible things he did in life, the one moment of weakness when he betrayed Bae's trust and let him go was by far the most terrible. But it was not irredeemable. It could be put right. He could find him, and beg his forgiveness, and possibly get it. It was as simple as that, and he never stopped to think of it deeply, for fear of doubting. If he started to doubt, he would lose his determination, and then he might as well be dead, for his determination was his life-force. He never stopped; never wavered, never considered minor details and even major ones. For example, he never thought – forbade himself to think – of the fact that his quest went on for so unnaturally long. It really took centuries, and while it didn't matter for his immortal self, it meant a lot for his son, who spent all that time in the world without magic. How could he be still alive? He stopped himself from thinking of that. While imagining their reunion (vaguely, he never allowed himself to think of the details, not wishing to be carried away by hopes), he always thought, subconsciously, that he will find the boy he lost. But of course it couldn't be possible – if he did succeed, he'd find an old man. He couldn't picture that, he didn't want to – he had no right to doubt. There was a prophecy – he would find him, it was meant to happen. He stood by it. That used to give him strength. That used to be enough.

Yet now, when he has met Belle and loved her, he felt his resolve abandoning him. His was such an impossible, insurmountable task. He had to lay aside everything to achieve it. He had to deny himself all human connections – any affection was a distraction, seeping away his strength. And here, right in his grasp, was happiness, and its' pull was strong. The temptation to give in to it, to do something that _he_ wanted, to life for _himself_, for the first time in his life, was strong. It was so easy to tell himself: 'The prophecy was false, as all of them are. I will not be able to find him. I have to accept my loss and my guilt. My loss is immense, my guilt might crush me, but here, in this girl, are the very means to help me bear it – to help me survive and become a better, wiser man'. But of course if he did that he would betray his son all over again.

That was a paradox, one of many that constitute human life. Belle was the greatest distraction in his quest, the only thing that would tempt him to stray from the path to redemption. And she was the greatest source of consolation when he despaired, and the greatest support when his will weakened. He just had to look at her to believe there was something bright in the world, that there was hope, and miracles could indeed happen, and not only if orchestrated by him.

He must not let himself be carried away by selfish hopes of personal happiness; that much was clear to him. He was a parent, and parents don't think of themselves – they think only of their children. He was a faulty parent; he failed in his fatherhood, and that made him unworthy of happiness. He had to put things right first, and then he could possibly start thinking of his own wishes and desires. If he succeeded, there would be time for that. For now, he could not and would not abandon his task. He would carry on with his plan; he would make sure that the Queen casts his curse, after he made sure that the infant that would break it is born.

He would not be distracted or stopped. But he could use Belle to help him – to support him. There must be a way to combine these things. Why can't he love her, and still go on fighting for his son? Why would these things be contradictory? She could stay with him. She could continue to be the source of hope for him. He'd work better for that, for he'd be a better man. Love is supposed to enlighten and help. It could not – it would not – be an obstacle.

And what he felt for her _was_ love. Not just a crazed passion, an obsession with beauty and youth, for which he condemned himself after he gave in to his lust so disgracefully. He had time to think and reflect since then. He kept away from her for a while, he escaped temptation; he tried to temper his excitement at her closeness. And, while being away, while forcing himself to think of her nature rather then her looks, he found himself even more enchanted. After the depths of shame he felt that night, he thought he'd never be able to look at her; yet, when he did, he forgot the shame – one glance of her magical eyes made him feel elated and… pure.

This had nothing to do with passion. It had everything to do with hope.

It did cross his mind that, when he succeeded with his curse, he'd lose her – the focal point of the whole enterprise was to make lovers forget each other. But he cast that thought aside as insignificant. While the curse would be in force, they will not remember each other – they will not suffer. When the curse would break, he would find Bae, and then he would find Belle.

He thought of everything. He considered every detail. Nothing could go wrong.

A wise man said once that for every complex problem there is a solution that is simple, neat, and wrong.

He did not think of that.

That bright morning in early spring was one of the days when, however much he tried to restrain his wish to be near her, he couldn't help himself. He came down to the dining room, where she served him tea, and didn't escape back to the study. He lingered, watching her move gracefully around the room. She seemed to be in a happy and light mood; she kept smiling at him and sort of… following him around. It seemed she had something on her mind – she had a look of an inquisitive little bird, biting her lip, obviously trying to form some question. Finally, she literally chased him round the table and then, with sudden spontaneity that young people have, she sat on the table and looked up at him.

'Why did you want me here?' she enquired.

'Because you are the woman I am destined to love, and I couldn't let you go', would have been an honest answer. But there was obviously no way to blurt it out like that, so he made a face and sipped his tea: 'The place was filthy'.

That was a typical of him – she was accustomed to his manner to brush her off when she asked anything serious. Usually, she'd give up after such answers. Not this time. This time, she insisted on a normal conversation. Not just insisted – suddenly, without any sort of warning, she brought this conversation to an entirely new level.

'I think you were lonely. I mean, any man would be lonely', she ventured a guess.

He nearly choked on his tea. This was very _personal_. This showed she was thinking of him; cared for what was happening to him; was compassionate for him. It also went directly to the point and was acute. She understood him quite well, and felt confident to show it.

That was unexpected, and not very welcome. He still feared the power she held over him. He had to restore his position – to remind her that he was a dark wizard, thank you very much.

'I am not a man', he said.

He meant it to sound cold and distanced, as in 'I am not a man; I am The Dark One'. Instead, it sounded lame and self-pitying.

Embarrassed, he sat gingerly on the table near her, not wanting to be exposed to her curious eyes standing in front of her, yet at the same time meaning to show that he was not dismissing her; he wanted to go on talking. God, she was talking to him – she showed interest and compassion – she showed she cared!..

That was a mistake. He was suddenly very close to her – he hasn't been that close since she fell into his arms from the ladder. With her beautiful face just inches away from his, it was difficult to adhere to his policy of self-restraint. His heart accelerated. He turned away from her, looking at the floor.

And then she asked him about Bae. He felt suddenly heavy – one word, 'son', brought it all back: his face, his presence, his love, the good times, the laughter, and the awful moment when he was lost – all that came back to him, forcibly. He tried so not to think of it, to keep it at bay; it was so painful, and the pain itself could easily distract him from his task. He could not allow himself to become too emotional, for when he became too emotional, he made mistakes. Terrible ones.

Yet she wanted an explanation, and he had to give her one.

'There was. There was a son. I lost him – as I did his mother'.

He knew these few words were not enough, but he couldn't say more. He knew it was a right moment to tell her the story – to explain… He had to tell her, if he wanted any future with her. How could he hope to love her, how could he hope she'd help him if she had no idea what he was? He had to tell her, he had to talk to her, otherwise all their moments together would remain incomplete and lead to shame and darkness. But he couldn't. It was not just that it was not really possible to utter the words 'I killed his mother, and I let him fall into the magic portal while he was screaming for me'. Imagine what such a revelation would do to her – all compassion and interest would vanish from her eager face at once. It wasn't just that he didn't want to blacken himself in her eyes. He just couldn't really _speak_. His mouth was dry.

Yet she seemed to be satisfied – with the lightheartedness of youth she took his scarce information into her stride and went on, driving to the point she really wanted to make, asking something that really interested her. 'So you… You were a man once. An ordinary man'.

'_Oh yes, and you should have seen me then. It was pitiful'_, he thought bitterly.

And then it hit him. She was asking about _him_. She was interested _in him_.

Goodness gracious, could it really be happening? Could it be that, in all that time when he was dreaming of her and thinking of her, she was thinking of him in remotely the same way?

It seemed she was, for she continued: 'If I'm never going to know another person in my whole life, can't I at least know you?'

His heart thundered in his chest. Her choice of words, completely accidental of course, made this simple question deeply meaningful. 'To know' someone does not always mean just learning a character. It can also mean 'to possess'. A husband 'knows' his wife when he beds her for the first time. She wasn't going to know anyone in her life but him. She wanted to _know_ him.

It was complete madness. There was no way she could have meant it. He had to get a grip of himself, fast, before his imagination got the better of him.

He stood up, abruptly, and turned to face her. 'Perhaps…' he started with a sigh, and had to stop. God, no, no 'perhaps' about her 'knowing' him like that, or his head would burst. He had to lighten the mood, and his habitual quipping came in handy. 'Perhaps you just want to learn the monster's weaknesses, ah? Ah?'

Even as he joked, even as he waved a finger in playful warning to her he brought his face closer to hers, and felt he was drowning in her eyes. He wanted to stroke her cheek, to cup her face in his hands and slowly, slowly kiss her.

His distraction didn't work, anyway. She smiled at him indulgently, as she always did when he was fooling around, but she did not abandon the subject. 'You are not a monster', she said gently. 'You think you are uglier than you are…'

She went on about covered mirrors. He stood stunned, living through cruel awakening.

Ugly. She thought him ugly. Well, not _very_ ugly, as she inferred in her great kindness, but ugly still, and ashamed of it. It seemed she wanted to perk him up a bit, oh gentle soul.

How could he have been such a fool? How could he not think of it? How could he forget how the world must see him – how _she_ sees him? He lived at peace with himself – he was what he was, and looked as he had to. That's what _he was_, the heart and the face at one. But she saw a monster – a literal monster, a green beast with black claws and eyes of a snake.

To think what he was thinking of her. To imagine what he imagined, from her eager touch to her passionate kiss to her abandoning her body and her whole self to him. And all that time, she saw him as a lonely ugly creature of darkness, and _pitied_ him.

Oh, the _shame_ of it.

A knock at the door was very welcome. The sight of her stupid and handsome fiancée was more welcome still. He was so angry with himself he needed to let the steam off.

Turning a pretty mindless boy into a pretty mindless flower felt good.

He stood at the door for several moments, taking deep breaths, trying to arrange his thoughts. He knew that his feeling for her was unreciprocated; he knew that from the start. He hoped that she might love him, in time – and he knew it was just a dream. He knew she only touched him twice, and that he held her in his arms accidentally, and he knew that it was stupid to make anything out of these occasions. He told himself that, many a time. He just let himself get carried away somehow. He was so certain of his love for her that it felt entirely natural that she should feel the same way, at least to some extent, or at least to be inclined to feel the same way. Well, it was glaringly obvious now that she didn't, nothing was farther from her thoughts, and that cast an entirely new light on the whole situation.

His love made him extremely vulnerable to her. She had the power to crush him just as surely as if she held his heart in her pretty little hand. He had to know what she thought of him, really. How she felt. He had to know if there was any hope for him, or if he must distance himself from her as much as possible.

The Dark One cannot be killed with anything but his dagger, but right now it felt as if humiliation would do the job very nicely indeed.

He came back, carrying the rose behind his back. He gave her the flower, and wondered at the lightness and gentle teasing tone of his own voice. He was probably drawing strength from despair, how else he could be so outwardly calm, so playful?

He started asking her questions, urging her to tell him about herself. She responded hesitantly at first, doubting his interest, then eagerly, as shy young people do when they feel genuine interest. Watching delighted glow on her face, listening to her detailed explanations of her wishes and hopes, he thought how terribly young she was, and how neglected she must have been back there in that gloomy kingdom of hers. She was an odd one out there; nobody must have ever asked her about her feelings and wishes. A closeted life, an arranged marriage – it must have felt awful for such a bright, such an intelligent girl.

And what did he do to her? He took her from one prison, and placed into another.

And he dared to call it love.

He listened carefully as she explained her reasons for coming with him. Heroism. Sacrifice. A wish to prove herself. All wonderful, very natural reasons, which did her honor.

There was nothing that referred to him. He was a thing that moved the plot – his coming was just a factor of change. She didn't think of him otherwise. He had no other significance.

She didn't love him.

Love for her was an abstract thing, one supposed to happen in distant future, and she spoke of it with romantic dreaminess and idealism of a person who never felt the real thing.

As she moved about the room, glancing at him, smiling, making sure he understood what she means by this or that, and obviously flattered by his attention, she was truly, truly lovely. He couldn't take his eyes of her.

Never, never has he loved her more.

He loved her, body and soul, his heart bleeding with tenderness, and his whole being filled with deepest sadness.

She was such a bright and wonderful thing. She was a truly magical being – how could he not see that before? She glowed with magic, as if she wasn't born naturally, but shaped in some outer region by some beautiful force, entirely foreign to him.

She was a woman whom he would love till the day he dies. And, as he was immortal, that meant he would love her forever. But he could never touch her. It was like trying to touch a ray of sun and, by his very nature by touching her he could only cast a shadow on her.

With pain, he thought of another woman he thought he loved – oh, how well he knew the difference now. He told her he could only give her darkness and isolation. It was true then.

It was true now.

His lips were numb, not really his own, as he told her he was setting her free.

As she left the room, it visibly darkened. This had nothing to do with her leaving, of course – the weather changed, clouds obscured the sun. But it seemed very fitting to the way he felt. Darkness with which he belonged came to claim him.

He kept waiting for something to change in the magic that flowed around him. That change of fate, the magical reshaping of the universe, which he felt in her father's castle when she said 'Forever' to him – surely it must come undone now? He let her go, that deal is off – why doesn't the universe respond to it? Why doesn't the bond break?

He never thought that the spell that made the bond was not his, and wasn't for him to break. He was just too miserable to think.

He sat there, in the twilight matching his inner gloom, looking at the tray with tea things that she forgot on the table in her haste to leave, and trying to at least start imagining his life without her.


	13. Chapter 13

13

She stood by the castle gates, feeling lost.

The day had changed, drastically – sunny morning was chased away by dark, oppressive clouds. It felt like twilight, while it must have been afternoon still. She thought, dismally: what if the weather around here changes just as abruptly as His moods? She pictured the scene in the dining room, the scene that took place less then an hour ago. All seemed to be going well – he was in a good mood, and they were talking, at last; he answered her questions seriously, and he listened to her, really listened, with kindness and attention she rarely, if ever, received in her entire life. She blushed when she remembered the things she told him – somehow his kind eyes prompted her to voice dreams and hopes she never dared express before. It must have sounded like a silly girlish prattle to him, but he never showed any irritation. He asked her more questions. He smiled at her answers as if he understood.

And there was a moment, when he asked her about Gaston (gosh, she could hardly remember what the boy looked like!), and she started to tell him what her idea of love was… Well, it was a very strange, very delicate moment, for while voicing her rather abstract wishes, she suddenly felt it again – that gentle stirring of the heart she experienced when she looked at him in the carriage on the day when they were chasing the thief. She said that for her love was a mystery to be uncovered, and she thought of the mystery that He was for her, and of how much she wanted to solve it. And there was such a look in his eyes as she spoke that something in her soul whispered, softly, and urged her to tell him, aloud: 'Love is… like you'.

She blushed at the thought, and changed the subject, asking him about his son again.

And he seemed to clamp, instantly – not in the way he did before, when she just felt his pain at the loss, or at the memory of a loss. Then it was instinctive, he shunned from her to protect himself, and how could she blame him? It must be unbearable to lose a child. But this time, there was nothing spontaneous in his reaction to her question. He made some conscious decision; he spent a moment casting some inner vote with himself, and then he voiced his 'deal': he'd tell her the story if she came back from her errand in town. And then he told her, expressly, that he didn't expect her to come back.

Did he let her go? Or was he just so unwilling to share his past that it was easier to get rid of her then to talk to her?

On the surface of things, all was simple. She had an errand, and once she came back, she'd get a reward. That felt… belittling, as if she were a child who was promised a sweet for fetching something, but it was straightforward. On some other, deeper level she felt that something else has happened. His voice, his look, everything in his distanced manner told her that he was actually setting her free. He was calling off the deal they've made back in her father's castle. He didn't want her 'forever', not any more. He didn't want her at all.

She wondered why, and felt a pricking of angry tears. Why would he cast her away? Wasn't she good to him? Didn't she do all his bidding? Weren't they friends – well, companions, at least? Didn't he like her? Oh, it was so unjust. She tried so hard, she centered her whole existence around him; she thought of him constantly – sleeping or awake, he always seemed to fill her mind. She felt for his suffering, she shared his gloom and she laughed at his jokes, she wondered at his dark fate, she felt anguished because of his curse. She wanted to _help_ him. She cared for him, as he asked her to. And now, being suddenly without warning or explanation relieved from all responsibilities, she felt… cheated.

It didn't feel real, this sudden 'freedom'. Somewhere inside her she still felt bounded to him – connected with him. When she pictured that dark and barren land her life became when they've met, the land where he was her only companion, he was still there. He just stood at a distance, observing her dispassionately, as if wanting to know what she'd do.

Well, she'd show him! Let this cold, unfeeling man, unable to appreciate when people cared about him get a taste of his own medicine. He didn't expect to ever see her again? Well, he wouldn't. She _will_ go away, just as she was told. She would obey her 'master'. And if he needed some more straw, let him fetch it himself. And if he wanted _her_ again, forever or otherwise, let him go and find her. He was the Dark One, right? He could do anything. Surely he would have no difficulty in finding a person he has lost.

She pulled her hood closer over her head, jerked the basket for the straw angrily (it felt stupid to carry it with her now, but what could she do – throw it away?), and started walking away from the Dark Castle. With each step the practical Belle rejoiced. She was doing the right thing; she was getting free from a place that befuddled her mind, from a man who disturbed her soul. Did she, in all her fascination with him, forget that she was his prisoner – that her 'room', however comfortable now with all the beds and dressing-tables, was still a cell in a dungeon? Did she, in all her enthusiasm for bringing him teas and cleaning his floors, forget that she was a princess? Did she, with all her feeling of being irrevocably bounded with him, forget that hers was a free spirit, and she could make her own decisions? He never told her what he wanted from her, and he was a dark wizard with a reputation of a ruthless monster. How could she be even sure that her interest in him and her fascination with his mystery were _her_ real feelings, and not a result of him meddling with her mind for some devious reasons of his own?

She had to get away, even if just to check whenever being away from his influence would alter her feelings. She needed a breath of air, a bit of space to think and reflect. Her life was so _full_ of him since the second they've met, she hardly knew herself anymore. Her entire soul seemed to be… crowded by him; he was in every nook and corner of her mind. She needed to be free to think and feel freely, then she'd know what she really thought of him, and how she felt.

Thus reasoned the practical Belle; the dreaming Belle, deaf to the voice of reason, kept repeating dully: 'I have to come back'. Whatever he meant, however he offended her with his sudden dismissal, he was hurting – that was obvious. Something hurt him. May be she hurt him, somehow? Perhaps she could help him. What if he was sitting there alone in the dark, desolate, as she sometimes saw him? What if he unleashed his frustration on someone innocent? What if he moaned now, as she heard him moan sometimes? What happened to her wish to comfort him, to ease his pain? Surely that wish was not induced by his dark magic – he was too proud to induce in her anything like that; something in her nature made her sorry for him. She did not need the time and space to feel compassion. She did not need a clear mind to see that he fascinated her, still. She kept seeing the sad and resigned look in his eyes. She kept feeling how his hand trembled when she held it. She kept blushing remembering how he gave her the flower. And moreover, the questions about him – what was he, why was he like that, what made him so sad – kept nudging at her brain. And that had nothing to do with his influence, evil or not. It was about herself – her own soul, her own mind, her own curiosity. She would never be at peace with herself until she knew him. It was worse than having a good book snatched from her, unfinished.

She had to get away. She had to come back. Oh, why was she so _confused_?..

She stood in the middle of the road, knowing she must make some sort of decision, soon. And then she heard a carriage behind her, and looked back to see if perhaps it was Him – coming to ask her to get back, for his mood changed, yet again. But it was a strange carriage, and it stopped by, and a beautiful woman came out and insisted on walking by her side, drawing her into an uncomfortably intimate conversation.

The woman was smiling at her and asking kind questions, but Belle couldn't help feeling there was something sinister about her. Her skin was dark, her eyes and hair black and, despite her rich dress, she looked like a gypsy. And, as one does when approached by gypsies, Belle felt unable to control the situation. She felt that she was being fooled, but couldn't disengage herself. She did not want to talk to this woman, let alone tell her anything important. Yet she found herself telling her secrets and sharing intimate thoughts. She did not want to discuss her master, yet she was doing it. She did not want to ask for advice, yet she did. She did not want to trust this woman, but she trusted her.

She felt as if she has fallen under some dark spell, and wondered vaguely how could she, just moments ago, suspect her master of meddling with her mind? With him, she never felt like that – captured, helpless, completely in somebody else's power.

The dark woman seemed to look deep into her soul, and brought to light something that Belle didn't see for herself – something that she, until now, hasn't even considered.

The woman asked her if she was running from her lover. And this word, this idea made Belle's world stop for a second.

Her lover. A person she loves. Could it be true? Could it be Him?

In her childhood and teenage years, as she read her books, of course she had thought of love – dreamed of being in love, of meeting a man who will turn her world around, filling her life with new meaning. Any girl does that. She generally preferred dark strangers to handsome princes – the former were intriguing, the latter rather boring. But she never really got around to building a mental image – it was pointless, not practical; she was promised, her life was mapped out for her, what was the point of dreaming of something different? She dreamed of love, yet she never expected to fall in love. Such things just didn't happen to princesses in real life, for a life of a real princess is as unlike a fairy-tale as could be.

Yet a man came into her life, and turned her world around. He carried her away from her father's castle, just as heroes in books did, and he filled her life with new meaning. With him, nothing was ordinary or dull or expected. With him, everything was amazing and strange. He filled her with wonder and awe. She feared him, a little. He invaded her thoughts during the day and her dreams at night. She wanted to sit at his feet and feel his hand on her hair. Something in her soul leaned his way, all the time. Her heartbeat fastened when he entered the room. He teased her, and gave her flowers. He was graceful. His body was warm, and it felt wonderful to be embraced by him. She liked his laugh. His gilded skin was beautiful. He was the most powerful man in the world. He was lonely. He looked at her with tenderness and longing. He trembled at her touch. He needed her. He suffered. He hid his true nature and his true feelings. She wanted to help him. He was the mystery she wanted to spend her life uncovering.

He held her captive in so many ways.

He sent her away so that she could come back. He just pretended he didn't want her.

He did want her – forever.

She promised to be with him forever, and she was so glad of this promise now.

She pictured that desert where she imagined them standing together, and it didn't seem so dark and chilly any more. The darkness was ebbing away.

If only there was a way to help him – to ease his pain, to take away the shadow that hang over him, making him angry, volatile, secretive, and unhappy. That shadow made him stay away from her – that shadow stopped him from being open and free with her. That shadow was evil, for it brought him pain; it pulled him into darkness, and it kept merging the man and the beast in such a complicated way that it was impossible to help him.

That shadow didn't let her see him clearly, and know him fully. And right now she could have given anything to know him as he really was.

The dark woman smiled at her, with a weird sort of triumph, and said there was a way to dispel this shadow. She said it was a curse, and it could be broken. And at this moment, in her eagerness to believe the best, Belle forgot all her mistrust and misgivings and all her thoughts of dark magic. The woman told her what she most wanted to hear.

She knew it was a curse, always, and now she knew there was a way to help him – a magical one, but how else could it be, if everything about him was magical?

There were words that He, her master, said often enough: magic always comes with a price. Eager to cling to his every word usually, she didn't remember those ones. Not then.

The dark woman was gone as suddenly as she appeared.

She was alone in the middle of the road again. Night was approaching. She had to hurry. She was thinking, fast. She must return, and behave as naturally as she could – he mustn't think that anything was out of the ordinary. He sent her to fetch some straw, he promised her a story – she must return with this straw, and ask for her story. She mustn't betray her newly found goal. She also mustn't let him suspect that she hesitated, that she didn't want to come back, even for a second; he will be hurt, and would withdraw from her, and she didn't want that.

All that meant that she couldn't return at once, as she wanted to. She had to get to town and find the straw first. She ran all the way to the village, and half the way back, slowing down only when she approached the castle. She needed to slow her breathing, to collect her thoughts a little bit – she reminded herself he mustn't notice how exited she was.

Her heart was singing, and she couldn't stop smiling. Her master. Her _lover_. How strange and how beautiful the word sounded. She never imagined it would be like that, yet it felt so right. She never looked at him that way, yet once she did she wondered – what other way was there to look at him, ever?

She never imagined that the man she'd love would be like him. Yet now it was obvious there could be no other man.


	14. Chapter 14

14

The road leading from the castle winded through the trees, clouded with dusk, and disappeared in the darkness as the forest thickened. He did not know why he was watching it, standing by the window of his study where he retreated to brood, for hours now. It has been _hours_. She wasn't coming back. Why would she? He told her not to, and she had no reason of her own to disobey his order.

It hurt. It hurt that she left, so easily, so eagerly. It hurt to know she wouldn't want to return – wouldn't even think of it. It hurt to realize, with absolute clearness, that everything that happened between them did happen only in his mind. The thought that it was a good thing, anyway, that something light and wonderful has entered his life, even if in such a contorted way, didn't help. He might have been consoled that he had known love, at least, even if such a hopeless one. He wasn't. He might have drawn comfort from the knowledge that he did a good and right thing in letting her go. He didn't. It still hurt.

Hoping, against hope and reason, that she'd come back, that he'd strain his eyes just a little bit more and see her returning figure on the dark road – walking briskly, swinging her basket – was the worst. Hope hurt the most.

That was why, when she did appear on the road, exactly as he imagined her, he didn't believe his eyes at first. He had to close them, and look again.

It was true.

She was coming back.

He ran down the stairs, leaping across the steps, trying not to choke on his heart, which jumped right up his throat. He sat at the spinning wheel, nearly tripping it over, and tried to appear nonchalant, knowing that he was failing, dismally. He was sure she'd see right through him, see the state he was in – she did possess an uncanny ability to penetrate into his soul.

Stop it, he told himself. She has no such ability – you have invested her with it in your obsession with her. She cares nothing for you. She is just a curious child, and she wants to hear the story that you've promised to tell her.

She entered the room, carrying the basket of straw. His stuttering comment on the fact sounded pitiful even to his own ears. She brushed it away: 'Come on, you are happy that I'm back'. Her face smiled at him through the spokes of the wheel.

'Oh, if only you knew', thought he. 'I am not unhappy', he said aloud.

He meant his voice to sound light, but he sounded nervous. She seemed changed, somehow. She lost all her shyness, she was remarkably easy around him; she had a decisive 'no-more-of-this-nonsense' air about her. This unnerved him, slightly. No, this unnerved him greatly. He wondered what brought on this change in her. He still couldn't wrap his mind around the fact that she was, actually, here again. She came back.

He turned away from her radiant face, and started fussing with the wheel, fingering the spokes, wishing there was some more effective way to hide his reaction to her, to gain some time to get accustomed to the fact that she was near him – unbearably close to him.

She didn't give him time. With pitiless decisiveness of youth she closed the distance between them – she walked around the wheel, placed her hands on his shoulders and whispered into his ear: 'You promised me a story'.

She touched his shoulders. Her face was just an inch away from his. What's come over her?

He was too stunned to even get exited.

'Did I?' His voice betrayed him, yet again. No nonchalance here, no easy forgetfulness.

She moved again, she took the spindle from his hand, brushing it lightly and sending shivers across his entire body; then she sat on the stool by his feet, making him start and give a little exclamation of surprise – she was like a small whirlwind of happy activity, and he was caught in the middle of it, mercilessly attacked by her light touches, by her closeness, by the wave of warmth she excluded. Everything he dreamed of, everything he pictured in slow and sensual detail came rushing on him – the state of intimacy that he imagined would take months to achieve was achieved in a matter of seconds, and he was plainly overwhelmed by it all. She paid his embarrassment no heed – ruthless, as all young people are she didn't give him time to collect himself.

She placed a hand on his _thigh_, as if it were a completely natural thing to do, and said: 'Tell me about your son'.

His mind was blank. He was looking into her eyes, breathing in her breath, and burning where her hand touched him.

She didn't display any sort of shyness at their closeness. Did she not realize what she was _doing_ to him? Perhaps she didn't. She looked up into his eyes; her face was alight with interest and curiosity. She was a curious child, and she wanted her story.

Unfortunately, he had no voice to tell it.

'I… lost him', he stammered. 'There's nothing more to tell, really'.

He expected a disappointed frown, and hundreds of questions – in her newly acquired brashness he'd expected her to pester him with questions.

Instead, her face became mellow and dreamy, and her eyes misted over with tenderness. 'And, since then, you've loved no one. And no one has loved you'.

Her voice was just as her face – full of dreams, gentle. What was _happening_ to her? Why did she move so close, all of a sudden?

Why did she spoke of love?

Could it be?.. Could it be happening?

He looked into her loving eyes, and whispered: 'Why did you come back?'

She gave a small apologetic smile. 'I wasn't going to. Then…' Oh, that dreamy, gentle look again! 'Something changed my mind'.

With that, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. Awkwardly, like a child pecking a parent on the cheek; trustingly, as if giving her life over to him; innocently, as if pressing a flower to his face; hopefully, as if seeing the light; gently, like a lover; powerfully, as if casting a spell.

He imagined their kiss, over and over again. He imagined the softness and the tenderness, the wetness, the sweet pulling of his lips on hers – he was feeling it, now… He imagined the unraveling of his heart, and the onset of longing. He imagined sighing with wonder and awe – he was feeling that now, too. He never imagined this kiss to take him over so. He felt as if a great wave washed over him, drowning him and carrying back ashore instantly. He felt weak and shaking, as if coming down with a fever, and coming to after a long spell of sickness. He felt like he was dying – disappearing in her; and it was final, awful and unbearably sweet.

'What's happening?' His voice was small, as if he were a child.

She was exultant – her eyes blazed with triumph and hope. 'Kiss me again – it's working!'

'What is?'

He frowned. Something was wrong. Something about it – something about _him_ – felt wrong.

She put her hands on his shoulders and said, looking into his eyes with devotion, and earnestness, and – yes, love: 'Any curse can be broken'.

And then he placed it – the uneasy feeling in him.

His leg, his mutilated leg was hurting.

He was human again.

He jumped back, tripping over his chair, as if she scalded him with boiling water.

The curse – she was breaking the curse. She was turning him into that shivering heap of damaged flesh and weak spirit and dirty rags he used to be. She was taking away his power – she was taking away his dignity. She was robbing him of his _self_. She was taking away his life – the meaning of it… If he were like _that_ again, he'd never find his son.

How could she do this to him? Didn't she realize?..

But of course she didn't – how could she?

How would she know anything about curses, anyway?

He was stepping farther away from her, frightened and angry, shouting questions at her, ignoring her fear and pain. His fury helped – it always helped, all his magic used to be born out of fury, and it served him again. The awful weakness left him, he felt more himself again, and he looked like himself again – a glance at his hands told him so.

But his leg still hurt, though slightly – he felt a ghost of a limp as he rushed towards the mirror to rage at Regina. Why would _she_ do this to him? Whatever did he do to offend her so deeply? Ah, but she was not to blame. This poor girl knew only hate – he taught her himself.

But Belle… She knew about love – she _was_ love. Why would she turn love against him?

But of course it was all a lie. There was no love anywhere but in his head. She acted a hero – she was killing a beast. Proving herself… That's why she came back. That's why she was so eager, so determined. Oh, how cruel she was, and how powerful. How easily she fooled him with her loving look.

He was screaming at her, hardly registering his own words. She looked frightened, and shocked – she never saw him like that, he never let himself go like that in her presence. But still she found in her the courage to fight him.

'It was working!..'

Her eyes, her magical eyes looked into his, fighting his fury, trying to break into his soul again, convincing him, against all odds that she did love him, that she meant well, and it was all just a terrible mistake.

'Shut up!' If he continued to look into her eyes, if he would let her say what she wanted to say, he'd lose this fight. He'd believe her, again. And he'd be gone.

'This means it's true love!' She was shouting now, too.

She was reaching out to him, with all her being. It must have meant something for her. She was losing something, too. She said the words, and he knew them to be true. He could not doubt her. It was working. It was true love.

She did love him. Ugly and evil and incomprehensible to her as he was she did love him. She didn't really know him, but she loved him.

Oh how incredibly, impossibly cruel life was to rob him of hope, to turn his only consolation into the thing that kills him.

'Shut the hell up!' He felt it, there in the room – the magical power bigger that his own, ready to crush him if only he let himself listen to her, let himself believe the look in her eyes. It took all his will not to let it in – love splashed all around him like waves of an ocean. One moment of weakness and it would engulf him.

'Why won't you believe me?' She was pleading with him now, with tears in her eyes.

He got hold of her shoulders and shook her. She gasped, truly frightened.

'_Because it is not about me believing you. It's about me losing myself. You don't know what you want. You don't even know whom do you want. You will not even know me if you win'._ Oh, how much did he want to stop his ravings, and say the words; but if he did that, love would rush into his soul again, and he'd be lost.

How horribly and unnaturally calm he was, somewhere deep inside, as he searched for something to stop her, to stop the raging of the alien power around him. How incredibly he hurt at the knowledge of doom that befell them.

The words came, finally, born out of this awful inner calm, brought to the surface by fury and pain: 'Because no one – no one – could ever, ever love me!'

It worked. The power around him went still and sipped away, slowly, accepting the victory of darkness. The great flow of magic filling the world changed, subtly, again – he felt it moving, as it moved when Belle said 'forever' to him, such an impossibly long time ago.

She felt it, too, for she looked at him in horror, and it was not his face, distorted with fury, that frightened her.

She felt magic happening, as she did then.

She must have truly loved him to feel for him so.

The great coldness came over him, even in the midst of his rage. It hung over him as he dragged her to her cell, barren and cold again, and as he moved about the castle, crushing everything his eyes fell on. He could rave and scream all he wanted now, he could weep, he could roar in pain, he could complain and regret – it mattered not. He could listen to her accusations; listen, unblinkingly, how she called him a coward and doubted his ability to believe her and take a chance of happiness. There was no point to explain now, no point telling her that it was not about himself, or her, and certainly not about happiness. It really did not matter if she understood, not anymore. He could really let her go, now, and even the spell she put on him before she left did not matter in the face of greater things.

Love could not touch him now, nor would it ever.

It was done. He has cursed himself.


	15. Chapter 15

15

Something awful has happened, she felt. Not just an ugly scene, when she was rejected, humiliated, hurt and cast away. That happened, too – it filled her with anger and wounded her pride, it brought on a sense of helplessness such as she never knew before, and crushed her with immediate and irrevocable loss: the light, the happiness were just there, she touched them, and then they were snatched from her by the very man who had power to bestow them. She was offended in her best feelings and intentions. She lost something that she wanted – him. And she felt the loss all the more because she had a chance to taste the prize she sought: she did kiss him, and she did feel his love, and her own, and what was just a fantasy became reality for a second, and it was magical. And he turned it all away there on the spot, and the pain of rejection was worse because she now knew exactly was she was loosing. It wasn't just a dream, it was _real_, and he didn't want it. That seemed important, at first – the need to blame him was overpowering. But, even as the whirlwind of anger and self-pity engulfed her, she felt there was something else. Something beyond the obvious, something much more powerful and sinister. Something that couldn't be patched or explained calmly, something that couldn't be discussed and amended.

Something irredeemable.

Something changed between them, making it impossible for her to reach him. Even as he screamed at her, even as he raged at her attempt to make him happier, she still felt he was open to her – he was _with_ her. And then he was gone – distanced from her in an almost physical way, as if encased inside impenetrable glass. She still could see him, and feel him, oh so close to her – she just couldn't touch him. Of his fear and anger at her attempt to help him she could have asked him. As days passed, she has reached a conclusion she really _should_ have asked him, before rushing into things, but at that time it didn't seem necessary: she was so confident, so sure they both wanted the same thing. She would have done things differently if she were not so young, and so elated by her discovery of loving him. She might have guessed there was much more to him, and to his existence, than she saw in her fascination. She knew he was a mystery to her – she might have asked some questions before trying to change his life for him. Yes, about the circumstances of his actions she could have asked him – she could have explained her reasons and may be, just may be they could have forgiven each other. But in the face of his distancing she was helpless. Nothing she could do or say would have any effect. When he was sending her away, meaning it this time, she tried to stir him – she voiced her anger, she confirmed her hope, she even insulted him, and she made an extreme effort to bind him to her, feeling something akin to magic flow through her as she voiced her prophesy of his eternal regret. It worked – she saw it in his eyes that he felt the bond forming. But it was all in vain. She felt his pain, and knew he feels hers, however much he tried to hide it, but he was unmovable, as if frozen.

It was maddening – to see and feel him clearly, to know every stirring of his heart directed on her and still be unable to connect with him. She felt so helpless. To see him suffering was torture. That's what became paramount to her as time passed – his pain. She felt it when, sitting in her cell, too angry to cry, she heard him raging around the castle, crushing things around him. She flinched at the sound of every breakage, and her heart constricted at the inhuman sound of his howling. He was like an animal in agony, and she wanted to rush out to him and console him – she wanted to simply hold him, letting the pain slowly leave his body. But she could not, for she knew that in some way incomprehensible to her _she_ was the very thing that caused the pain. She was the reason he suffered. She did something to cause all that grief.

He calmed down, after a while, and the silence felt worse than the raging. The hours passed, and she went through all stages of anger and regret. And then there was a whiff of purple smoke in the room, and when it cleared there was a tray with a teapot and 'her' chipped cup on it on the floor.

That was when she cried.

He cared for her, he truly did. He loved her – she saw it, so clearly, and felt it, so deeply. He looked at her so – how could she ever forget his face, his eyes when he searched her soul with his look, trying to understand why she came back to him. He wanted her so – she felt his whole body reach out to her, even as he tried to shy away. He looked at her as if she was a miracle. He sighed so – he made such a weird and wonderful sound when she kissed him, such a small and weightless sound, like a breath of the opening heart. She knew that he loved her, beyond doubt, when she heard it. But somehow love wasn't enough, and it was so unjust. Love was supposed to conquer everything, but it didn't.

Perhaps she wasn't strong enough. Perhaps she needed to know him better – perhaps her love, great as it was, was just… too blind, yet, and didn't find a right way to his heart. Perhaps she needed to know herself better. She tried to change the man she loved into a man she didn't know – perhaps it was wrong. She did see the face of that other man in her dreams and she glimpsed him, briefly, when they kissed. He didn't look that different from Him, but may be there was more than met the eye.

Perhaps love _wasn't_ enough, and something more was needed. Like courage, or understanding, and capacity to forgive. She had no problem with that – she forgave him, very soon after she left the castle. He hurt her, he did wrong by her, but love he brought her was more valuable then any wrongdoing: she knew him, and she loved, and that was a reward in itself, though this noble thought wasn't always enough to console. And anyway he could not be blamed – he was but a victim of something beyond him. She needed to know him better to understand what it was. She needed courage to come back again and find out, despite his rejection, despite her fear to be rejected again – and of course she feared that, she was only human. But she was determined to come back, nevertheless. She owed it to herself. She could not live, feeling his pain all the time. She would never be complete without reaching him again.

Yes, that was very clear to her – despite all that happened, despite that horrible impenetrable wall that stood around him now, they were still connected. The bond between them existed – pulsating like a living thing, hurt and bleeding, but alive. In the vast wilderness of her life she was still not alone. There was still no other path before her but the one they were destined to walk together. He was there, and he watched her from a distance, and he was in pain and in chains, and it was up to her to find a way to hold his hand, if nothing else. Yes, it was up to her, because she was free, while he was imprisoned.

She felt so even as she was imprisoned herself. Every day of her captivity at the hands of the evil dark woman she once met on the road, the woman that destroyed her life, yet showed her a way to happiness, she told herself that no walls could hold her forever – they cannot be kept apart forever. They were promised to each other – they said 'forever' to each other, and there was no breaking that bond. Nothing as big and powerful as the love she felt when they kissed could be defeated. She kept holding on to that moment. She kept seeing his face – alight with wonder, open, childlike, and so beautiful now in her mind's eyes. She kept hearing his sigh.

God, she _missed_ him so – missed everything in him, from his voice and his laugh to his touch and the glimmer of gold on his skin. The worst was when she dreamed of him, and woke up to find herself alone.

She cried a lot. But she never despaired. Even when, after what seemed like ages she felt some strange and terrible movement in the world around, she wasn't really frightened. Strangely alert to everything connected with him, she sensed it was magic, and that it was his. It all felt like the end of the world, the earth trembled and the clouds of black smoke filled the air. It was not like smoke from a fire; it was cold, and it didn't smell of burning. It went through the air changing it, somehow.

She should have been frightened, then. But she wasn't, for in the clouds of this smoke she thought she glimpsed his face. And it didn't frighten her that she was dying – he was with her, and that was all that mattered.

And then she woke up, and was lost. She did not know what she was, and what her life was about. She had no memories and no dreams. Some part of her was missing, and she felt it, but didn't even know what was it that she missed. She had no way of finding out. She looked into her soul to find answers, and saw only a vast and wild land, covered with cold mist, ravaged by cruel winds, looked upon blindly by stormy sky. There was no sense of direction here, everything was lost in darkness. And in this darkness, she was completely alone.


	16. Chapter 16

16

Time seized to be. There was no difference between day and night now, no passage of days and months, no change between light and darkness. There _was_ no light. He was in darkness, all the time, and in pain. His whole body screamed as if under torture, and there was no healing for him. Magic cannot heal a suffering soul. She could have helped him – she was the only thing in the world that could have saved him. One glance at her, the very feeling of her presence would have been enough. Yet she was the only person in the world he could not let near him.

He was a wizard; he should have known everything about curses. He should have forethought that the curse he put upon himself, closing himself against the onslaught of love, would have its' consequences. The side-effects, so to speak; but these are always difficult to predict when one is cursing oneself. In his rage, in his rush to save his magic and his self he did not see the obvious: the glaring and fatal flaw in his curse. Yes, it worked effectively – she could not reach him anymore, her love was struggling in vain against the spell that surrounded him, unable to get through to him; she could not love _him_. But it did not stop him from loving her.

Her love was powerless, now, though still present. His love was locked with him in his cell, burning him all the stronger because it now had no chance to fulfill itself. His curse did not stop his longing; it did nothing to weaken the pull he felt towards her. It did not diminish his frustration and regret, and his wish to run to her for consolation. Diminish? Why, they came back hundredfold, made stronger by his knowledge of the total impossibility of getting what he wanted, by his guilt at having broken things himself, by his anger at himself. Yes, he was angry at himself. While he was dreaming of her, picturing their union, while he was basking in the happiness of having her near, while he gloried in the miracle of having found his one true love – how could he have not thought of the power of this magic? He should have seen it coming – he should have at least thought of a possibility of her kiss changing him. Yes, her kiss worked with such terrifying force because she meant it to work. But it could have happened anyway; their love was such that she might have ruined him unwittingly. What was he thinking of? How could he have been so blind and careless? And what was the point of dwelling on that, now that everything was lost? He would not have been able to stop himself, anyway, even if he did see the coming end. Looking back, he knew he would not have been able to change a single thing between them. Well, he could have been wiser, and more honest with her. He could have explained her things about himself. But how was he to know? Her loving him was just a distant possibility in his mind – he had no way of learning it would hit him so suddenly.

Roaming his castle at night, pestering the magic land by day while carrying out his various errands, he never was completely there, with people whom he met. His mind was always elsewhere – he was thinking of her, calling to her, longing for her. He yearned for things that only she could give him – for things that _were_ her, from her beauty to her stubborn kindness. Anger did not help him distract himself – he could not be angry with her; it took him very little time to work out her reasons for trying to change him. Once he accepted the truth that she did love him, and he had no choice but to do it, in the face of things this love achieved, he could see clearly that there was no malice in her deed. She pitied him. She cared for him. She thought that he suffered from his curse. She did not know him, for she had no chance to know him. She knew only what she saw, and what she saw touched her and moved her. It was amazing that she loved him so strongly without knowing him at all. But then, that was magic.

She wanted to help him. What was it that she said? 'You were freeing yourself, you could have been happy…' Poor child. How simple, how straightforward life was for her, how strongly she believed in the importance of love, and how sweet was her determination to right the wrongs. How he needed this simplicity, this generosity of heart, and how impossible it was for him to get them. She would have given him a second chance; she was kind. And, given the force of his love for her, she might have broken the new magic wall he surrounded himself with. But he could not ask for that, for he did not have the right to happiness, and did not have the right to freedom. Now, after the way he treated her, he had even less right to them than before. His crime against Bae's trust came back to haunt him, and he committed it all over again. For the second time he rejected a person who loved him and whom he loved for the sake of his power. The fact that in the second case he had some justification did not matter. He committed a second crime in an attempt to cover for the first – he was just getting deeper into the darkness. He had offended love in two worst possible ways – he has abandoned a child, and he has rejected his true love. No wonder love punished him so, tormenting him with the yearning for the impossible, with memories of things that happened, and of things imagined that were right here, in his grasp, and were now gone.

Every second of every day he wanted to crawl to her on his knees, asking for forgiveness, begging her to use her magical strength to free him – he knew she could have done it, for, despite his curse, despite this new self-imposed punishment, he could still feel their bond; weak and wounded, it still glowed in the dark, still pulled on the strings that connected his heart with hers. It was amazing, it was hardly believable, but then, he knew better than anyone that magic always worked in strangest ways. She was holding that bond – in the vastness of magical space he felt her will, her hope, her determination to reach him, to show him that she knew him better than he knew himself. His curse said she could never love 'him', whoever he was. Her love, reaching for him in the darkness, showed him that she knew that 'he' was not who he thought he was – there was a man inside him he didn't see clearly, but she did. Not the beast, not the ordinary man whom she seemed to want at first – somebody else. His true self, perhaps. She just didn't find a way to embrace him yet. But she would – who else would discover a man's true self but his true love? And he wanted her to. His relentless love for her showed that he wanted her to change him, despite all his reasoning. It was absurd – of course he could not break the bond when his whole soul strove to keep it.

He was holding their bond, too. And cursing himself. And raging with regret. And crying with longing. And burning with hope that somewhere, somehow things could right themselves. In a way, he was just as stubborn a dreamer as she was – no wonder they fell in love.

And then he was told she was dead.

His pupil, his daughter (he always thought of her as of such, for in all ways apart from the purely formal one she was his child), his ungrateful creation came to him and told the news in a light, calculatedly sneering way, watching his reaction, waiting for him to collapse. How did he manage to create such a monster?

He did not collapse, not in front of the Queen, though he gave her enough reason to gloat. And, when she left, he did not collapse either. He did not rage, nor break anything around him, as he did sometimes when passion overcame him. He felt no passion now, and no rage. He was… cold. He even reflected, wildly, that it was weird – he should have been crushed with grief, overcome by loss, devastated with guilt. But then he realized, with sudden lightheartedness, that the coldness he felt didn't mean that he didn't care any more. He was cold simply because he was dead. Dead like her. Yet he was walking around, and even breathing. His body moved, as if on its' own volition, and took 'her' cup from the shelf, and placed it on the pedestal in the middle of the room, to remain there forever, meant to show him his own humility and helplessness, meant to always, always remind him that there are things that are, once done, could not be undone.

His world was empty. She was gone, she was gone forever, and he was gone with her. He could never think of her, as he used to. He could not dream of her. He could not turn to her, in his thoughts, for hope and consolation. He could not remember her. Any of these actions would mean he had a right to touch her or reach her, to be with her, and he had no such right. Everything that filled his mind, everything he was, was now forbidden to him. It was untouchable. His very soul was not his anymore.

And yet he could not die.

That was when he wept.

It all went downhill from there, spiraling almost out of control. He stopped sleeping, for fear of closing his eyes and seeing her face – for of course he did dream of her, however sternly he forbade himself to. He stopped eating, for the thought of feeding his body, supporting life in it repelled him. He became truly ruthless in his dealings, for he dealt with loving people, and he hated them. He had to help them – he had to unite a loving couple so that they would serve his means, but he hated them, he envied them, and he burned with the wish to explain to them just how blind they were in their self-confidence. He felt an eager and pitiful desire to belong with them – it was stronger that ever now that he knew he had a chance to that, and lost it. Sometimes he couldn't stop himself and would even mention her.

He had to share the fact that he had a suffering heart, as if anybody would care.

He acted and looked in a truly weird manner now – people had talked that he was mad, for many years now, and now he really did behave like a madman.

He _was_ going mad for, with all irrevocable knowledge of his loss, he still felt her. The bond was still there – holding on to him, held on to by him, unbroken, unchanged. He loved her still, but that was only natural: he was meant to love her forever. He felt her love still, which was beyond magic. Oh yes, people said that true love surpasses the grave, but that was supposed to mean memories, blissful or stained, but just memories nevertheless. She was no memory for him. She was _real_. He tried to shut himself out from her, but it was impossible, of course. He could not break the bond while she was alive – how could he do it now, when she was gone and beyond his power?

He must have truly, truly offended love for it to treat him so. The torment of loving and feeling the love that was unfulfilled, and had to remain unfulfilled in a very final way was punishment that defied his imagination.

He wondered if _that_ was the price for the miracle of finding her at all.

A dead man raked with constant pain, he drove on with the building of his curse, relentlessly, though sometimes he would have difficulty reminding himself what and why he was doing. The mission he set himself seemed empty and hopeless and very distant, moved to the edges of his mind by his immediate loss – _that_ loss felt just as fresh and cutting a year later as it did the moment it happened. Yet he kept going, like a mechanical toy, or a slaughtered chicken that keeps running even after it was beheaded.

Imprisoned by the 'good ones', he felt relieved. There was no need for pretense or action, no need for magic – and he was _tired_ of magic by now, exhausted by it, eaten away. He could really let himself go now, and howl and rage in his cage like a beast they have branded him to be long ago. He could really become the dark and horrible creature he felt inside.

If only he could stop feeling her. If only he could, somehow, forget. If only the pain eased.

When his curse came, finally, when the clouds of black smoke, which represented the darkness of his mind in such a fitting way, engulfed the world, going through it in terrible, earth-shattering waves, he waited by the grill of his cage, transfixed. He was strangely proud – he was in awe: he never did magic on such a scale, and was amazed he had it in him, amazed to realize that such a force was his. He was empty – he was on the verge of fulfilling his task, on the verge of getting what he has spent hundreds of years planning and for what he has sacrificed everything, and he didn't know what he would do when he finally achieved it. What would he live for? He was afraid – such magic as this had to have a price, and he didn't want to think of just how great it could be. Yet more that anything, he was grateful for the main condition that was set in the structure of the curse – for the loss of memories of all loved ones.

He would wake up in a new world, and forget her. He would forget his guilt, and his hope. And, terrible as it was to lose all memory of her, he was not sure he could endure his present state any longer. He was dying, and not just any sort of death – he was dying of pain; his was the death when heart stops for it is unable to handle the shock of torture. He was dying with each breath, and coming back to life again to die a second later. No man can endure that for long, however great is his love. No man can endure that forever.

If he forgot her, the pain would be gone.

He pressed his face to the rusty rods, and closed his eyes. He felt the cold wind of his own magic blow in his face, stinging his closed eyelids.

He welcomed oblivion.

When he woke up, he knew a lot of things about himself, and was satisfied with most of them. He had a settled life, a respectable trade, and power over people. He could have been happy, or at least content, if not for one thing. He felt he has lost and was missing something – some part of him that was extremely important. He did not know what it was, and it was frustrating in itself, but even more disturbing was the fact that this loss felt like pain – physical pain. It never left, and it never eased. He felt like people who, being seemingly lightly injured in some accident, walk home with but a couple of bruises and die an hour later from internal bleeding. Only he did not die – he bled and bled, inside, feeling the pain gathering in his body and eating it from the inside, poisoning it and taking him over until he felt like pain itself was the main thing about him.

He never bothered to share this depressing feeling with anybody. He had nobody to share it with, anyway. He didn't have any friends, for he was a difficult man to love.


	17. Chapter 17

17

She had quite forgotten the feel of the sun on her face. All the time that she had spent inside – she did not know how long it was, every day seemed the same, yet it seemed endless – what hurt her most was the cold. She was always cold, inside and out. Her cell was chilly, her blanket thin, she shivered all the time and had to sit on her bed crouching, embracing her knees, trying to get warm. And nothing helped: when she sometimes stood on the bed to try and get a glance of the world outside through the narrow window, the day there was always grey. Well, she couldn't see much, anyway, for most of the view consisted of the blank brick wall, but the narrow strip of the sky over it was always, always the same color – dull and dark. The air was cold, too, and humid. It felt like eternal winter. The world seemed just as dark and solitary and… suspended in time as she felt inside. It did not go anywhere, for it did not know where to go; it did not even know where it was to start with. Just like her.

And then, today, things moved, suddenly. The silence broke – she heard people running and calling for something in angry and frightened way. There was some unusual activity behind her locked door, in the world outside. And then a truly amazing thing happened – the door opened, and there was a strange young man, dressed as a doctor, who told her to leave, at once, and sent her to find some other man and give him a message.

And here she was, standing in the middle of the street of some nice small town, dressed in her hospital gown and a coat, which the young man gave her (she suspected it belonged to one of the nurses), and felt the sun on her face. Her lips moved soundlessly as she repeated the message and the name of the man she had to find.

She had no idea where to go.

She supposed she had to ask. There were not many people on the street, but she noticed a nice-looking young woman, with short dark hair covered with smart white woolly hat, and asked her. At the man's name the woman looked at her strangely, with a kind of alarm, but then she shrugged her shoulders and gave her the directions.

She moved down the street in the direction of the port, as indicated by the woman, but then she was lost – the sun and the smell of the fresh wind confused her. She had to ask again, and walked into a café called 'Granny's Diner'. Grumpy-looking elderly lady at the service bar – presumably, Granny herself, – gave a snort when she heard her question and retorted: 'Why would such a nice girl as you want to find that old rascal?' But she gave her the directions anyway, and snorted again at her thanks.

This time, she listened more carefully, and walked with determination, trying not to get distracted with the cheerfulness of the world around. The shop – it appeared the man she sought was a shop-owner – stood on the corner of the street and looked unwelcoming. She wondered if it was closed, and felt a sudden panic. What would she do if the door were locked? Where would she go?

She pushed the door, nevertheless, and to her great relief it opened. The bell over the door tingled sweetly. She stepped in and stopped short, while her eyes adjusted to the dusky interior of the shop. It was filled with all sorts of curious things, which all looked very old. The walls were covered with ornate wallpaper, which was nearly obscured by numerous paintings. The shelves were full of various things from oil-lamps to old clocks and books and what-not. Glass cases were filled with more things, and some things were even hanging from the ceiling – a couple of bicycles, for example. For all its' weirdness, the place felt warm and cozy.

In the far end of the shop, a man was busy with something – he stood with his back to her. She couldn't see him clearly, but he seemed slight – slim and not tall.

She asked uncertainly: 'Excuse me, are you Mr. Gold?'

He started answering her briskly, with a note of irritation in his surprisingly deep voice: 'Yes, but I am afraid the shop is closed…'

He turned to her, and something strange happened to his face. It went blank and very white, as if he was in shock – or as if she frightened him, somehow. His dark eyes stared at her, fixedly, not moving from her face as he started walking towards her, with an outstretched hand, and nearly stumbled. She noticed a cane in his other hand and realized, with a pang of compassion, that he was lame.

She felt stupid delivering her message to such a startled person, but she didn't know what to say otherwise, so she said: 'I was told to find you and to tell you that Regina locked me up'.

She wondered if he heard her – he didn't seem to be listening. He came up close now, and touched her shoulder.

He looked as if he was in great pain as he whispered: 'You are real. You are alive'.

His fingers gripped her shoulder so hard it almost hurt.

She felt moved by the extreme emotion in his voice, but she really couldn't make head or tail out of the whole situation. This man obviously knew her, and didn't expect to see her, and her appearance came as a great shock. She had to have some answers from him.

'I am sorry… Does this mean anything to you?'

He kept looking at her fixedly, as if still surprised that she was talking at all. But apparently he _was _listening to her, for he asked: 'Regina did this to you?'

He was referring to her message, and she nodded, relieved. Then she said, hesitantly: 'I was told you'd protect me'. She didn't know who Regina was and why she had to be protected from her but, judging from the man' frail look and distraught condition, she doubted he could protect anyone from anything.

At her question, his face broke – he seemed on the verge of tears. His lips quivered, and his voice sounded like a sob as he spoke: 'Of course. Of course I will protect you'.

With that, he had drawn her near – embraced her as if she were a long-lost child. The embrace was so strong as to be almost painful, like his grip earlier, and she heard and felt another sob-like sigh as he pressed his face to her hair.

Thoroughly embarrassed, she extricated herself from his hands and looked at him. It was so very strange that he knew her, and felt for her so strongly, yet she had no idea who he was. She looked into his eyes, willing herself to remember, and failing.

'Excuse me, do I know you?' It felt very rude to ask him that in the face of his obvious distress. But he didn't seem to be offended – he looked at her for a second, obviously trying to get a grip of himself, and failing dismally – his shock was too great. He gave a sort of helpless shrug, and tried to smile, and his whole face crumpled in an attempt to constrain some emotion incomprehensible to her as he answered: 'No. But you will'.

And, despite her own stress and the deepest uncertainty of her position, she suddenly felt relieved – calmed down, almost. He looked slight and shell-shocked, this Mr. Gold, but he excluded some… inner strength. She felt safe with him, even given his weird behavior.

Slightly disoriented, it seemed, he started fussing around the shop, picking up this thing and that, explaining hurriedly that he was 'just going out, as he had some very, very important thing to do, and what do we do now, what do we do with you?' She listened and watched for a while, and then she asked: 'Can't I go with you?'

He looked at her, startled: 'Would you?'

She blushed. 'I've got nowhere else to go'.

His lips quivered, again, but this time he managed to control himself, and took her hand.

His touch was warm and not unpleasant, his palm dry and hot, the grip of his long thin fingers strong and determined.

They walked out of the shop, and started into the woodland that stretched behind it.

As they went up the hill the sun continued to shine, and she, unused to so much activity, began to feel uncomfortable in her warm coat. Despite his limp, Mr. Gold walked very briskly, with surprising agility. The road was difficult: the forest was thick, the path stony and the roots gnarled. It was while they were negotiating some tricky part of the way, getting around the fallen tree, that he let go of her hand for a moment (he could not make this difficult move with his cane and her hand in his), and she fell slightly behind.

It was then that she felt it – the sudden and sharp shock, as some invisible wave hit her, stunning her for a moment, and immediately brining her life into focus.

In a split second it all came back to her. She saw herself as a little girl, running up narrow stone staircase, holding up the hem of her long dress, pressing a book under her armpit, hurrying to get into her room in the tower. She saw her father's dogs, jumping around the huge fireplace in the great room of the castle, sniffing the air excitedly before the hunt. She saw her father's face, and his stocky figure dressed in a royal mantle. She saw faces of knights and serfs, bowing in front of her as she walked towards the throne.

She saw Him, strolling around the hall with a sneering face. She saw his eyes, inhuman but tender, as he looked at her when she said 'forever' and the world trembled. She saw his hands, green and clawed, spinning the wheel, and remembered how they shook at her touch. She saw the golden glint of his naked back in the winter sunlight. She saw the arrow piercing his chest, and felt her heart constrict with pain. She saw his face, overcome with longing, as he looked at her. She saw his face contorted with pain and fury as he pushed her away. She remembered how she used to dream of sitting at his feet and feeling his hand stroking her hair. She felt his kiss, so brief and yet so shuttering. She heard his howling, and his cold dismissal, and his laugh – his quiet laugh as he sat spinning and thinking. She loved it so, this laugh.

She loved _him_ so.

She watched his back as he walked just ahead of her in the forest, and felt that something in her, some missing part of her slowly but surely settled into place. The world around her seemed different, she was different, He was different, and her visions might have seemed completely insane. Yet, for the first time since God knows when, she was certain she was _not_ insane. There was light where there used to be darkness, there was certainty where there used to be confusion, and He was where there used to be solitude. She knew who she was, for she found him. How could she doubt that she knew him? He _was_ the only thing she knew.

'Wait!'

'No, no, we are very close…' He answered her without turning with that deep, sad voice he had now, the voice she didn't know yet, or not too well. He was in a hurry to complete his mysterious errand. But she could not wait – she had to make sure that what she felt was real.

She called his name uncertainly, still not fully believing it really was him and saw him freeze. He stood there among the trees with his head half-turned to her, and waited for her to continue. She saw his profile, so different yet so like the one she remembered, and felt his tension, and sudden sadness that overcame his entire body. He was apprehensive, it seemed.

She remembered how they parted. She remembered how he told her he did not love her – how he told her that his magic meant more to him than she did. Yet she also remembered his face just minutes ago, in his shop. That was not a face of a man who did not love her.

She remembered his fury as he shouted that she cannot love him – his scream felt like a curse. Yet she also felt her heart opening up to him, reaching out to him, right now, and her whole body coming to life just because he was near.

He could scream and shout all he wanted – it did not matter. She knew what she knew.

She loved him, and she told him so.

His face looked so strange when he turned to her. Searching this unfamiliar face she suddenly realized how handsome he was now, with his dark eyes and thin nose and sensitive mouth and lanky straight hair with such a lot of grey in it. He looked… old and she wondered just how much younger then he she was. Again, as in the shop, she felt she was more like a lost child to him then a lover. He looked sad, and tired, and there was pain in his eyes – he looked _defeated_, as if he had lost a very, very long fight and was preparing to accept the inevitable. She wondered, with sinking heart, if he would ever let her come to him.

And then he opened his arms to her and, as she put her head on his shoulder, whispered into her hair: 'Yes. And I love you too'.

There was such sadness in his words, which were all-important as in fact they have cancelled all his protestations of old. He voiced his feeling, and he said 'yes' to her declaration – he consented to believe her. It should have made her ecstatic, if only he weren't so sad – not just in his tone or looks, he was sad somewhere inside. She wondered if it were so because he was changed, if perhaps the difference between the man she knew and the man she saw now run deeper than his looks. She felt for him so – she had such a strong urge to wrap herself around him, protectively; to help him, somehow, to bring back the teasing, exotic and undefeatable creature he was when she knew him. But there would be time for that, she felt. For the moment, it was enough just to be able to touch him and to know, with clear certainty of a loving heart and a body that feels at home in an embrace, that it was _him_, her master and her lover.

It was him, however he looked.

Unable to judge or comprehend what he was doing, she watched him drop his potion into the magic well, and felt a subtle change in him as his powers came back. At once he became more alert, more decisive, more animated than before. She looked at his hardened face, she answered his angered questions about her fate, and she tried to compare what she saw with what she remembered from the distant past. He did not look oppressed with darkness, as she felt him to be then. He was… at peace with himself, confident – as if he mastered something in himself. His power must have mattered much for him if he wanted it back, and somehow it did not feel like a terrible curse now. He did not seem to be afraid of her touch, not anymore. And though she did not feel the absolute power to reach him that used to be hers – _that_ still eluded her, but that was not because he shut her out.

She saw him much more clearly now. Did he change, or was she older and wiser?

What she did not want to see was a horrible coldness that entered his eyes, normally so warm and soft now, as he spoke of revenge. She did not want him cold and distanced, for any reason. She wanted him to be with her, and not distracted with anything else. Yes, it may have been very selfish of her, but didn't she deserve it? Being near him, she felt like she came back from the dead. She wanted to hold on to that feeling – she wanted to hold on to him.

He must have missed her, too. She wondered, briefly, why he was so surprised that she was alive, back there in the shop. Did he believe otherwise?

No, he did not shut her out – his haunted eyes, his trembling hand as he touched her cheek told her that he would never, never send her away now. And, as he promised her that he would not do anything rush, as she felt his fingers on her skin, as he looked into her eyes and called her 'sweetheart', almost breaking her heart with sweetness of his husky whisper, she felt something new awakening between them. She remembered how she thought, all that time ago, how he would be impossible to touch – remembered thinking how alien he was to her in his heraldic reptilian magnificence. He was not alien any more. Some barrier was gone. When she leaned in to him, asking for a kiss, she saw a flicker of apprehension in his eyes – they both couldn't help remembering how their first kiss ended. But right now she did not feel the slightest wish to turn him into anything else by magic kisses. She wanted to know him, as he was. She always wanted that.

She asked him, back then, if she could know him. He answered her, right now, that she _will_ know him. When people say these words, they don't always mean learning somebody's mind and habits. A man and a woman know each other in another, much deeper and simpler way.

As they kissed, finally, she felt it – the warmth and the gentle pull of his lips on hers, insistent, physical, and real. It was such a joy to touch him – to feel his fingers in her hair, to hear his breathing quickening, to feel how his body gets tense and his skin gets _hotter_ where they touch. It was such a joy to feel the crushing force of his embrace, to feel that having her near means so much to him. She knew he'd never let her go, and she was finally safe – she was at home in his arms. She was where she was meant to be, and it did not matter if she was drawn there by magic or by force of nature.

She never imagined that being physically near him would mean so much to her. When she kissed him, back in his castle, the force of magic was so great that the kiss didn't really feel like a kiss – it was a ritual, not a union. Yet now she was feeling his tongue on the inside of her lips, his stubble scratching her skin, ever so slightly, and she heard his catching breath. And _that_ was magic.


	18. Chapter 18

18

Would fate ever stop torturing him with hope? Would it ever tire of laughing him in the face, mocking his plans, his determination, his regrets and even his very repentance?

He used to be a man at peace with himself. Unhappy man, yes, and lonely. A man filled with pain and haunted by guilt, yes. A man driven to despair by his slow and inevitable descent into madness – that was how he felt while he lived under the curse, unable to remember his true self, yet constantly haunted by repressed memories, which with time became more real to him than the life he lived in the illusory town created by his will and brought to reality by his pupil's hate. A man determined to succeed in his mission, despite all personal losses, which made his task harder and sadder, yet could not devalue it or stop it from being carried through for, if he stopped, that would mean all the losses were pointless – that's how he felt when he finally remembered who he was. The pain of remembering was cosmic, but he was almost relieved to feel it – the years of uncertainty exhausted him so that he welcomed pain as if it were an old friend. The pain was durable as long as he knew himself and was able to go on with his mission. This pain was the price he paid for getting as close to completing his lifework as he did. He would never get rid of the pain, he knew that, and he did not mind: his pain was a proof that he was alive, and had a heart to feel it. He came to terms with it. He came to terms with himself; his loneliness and his guilt were part of being him, his isolation was part of his darkness. He was _reconciled_ with himself and his place in the world.

His ever-mocking destiny could not stand it, of course. It had to come and crush him. It had to shatter his life, monastic and purpose-driven, with giving him back what he had thought lost forever. It had to distract him with a dream of happiness. It had to blind him with hope. It had to ruin his self-control, and show him that deep inside he was exactly the man he always was – so pitifully hungry for love that a hint of it would turn him into a weeping child.

He was just a step away from achieving his goal. He _paid_ for being that close to it. And then She walked into his shop, and he was back to square one, firmly stuck in the same impasse as he was years ago in the magic land. He knew he could not have her, for coldness and determination needed to complete his task were incompatible with love: that did not change, though everything around did. He wanted to have her, achingly, because she brought him light and hope, and part of him wanted to believe that light and hope would bring him closer to success. That did not change either.

There was nothing in the world he wanted more than her. He wanted her much more than he wanted to find his son; wanting her was real, and finding him has become an almost abstract idea – _that_ was a very hard thing to acknowledge to himself. But he did acknowledge it, and repented it, and even because of that he saw no way among the uncountable paths of the universe that he could _let_ himself have her.

But all that was philosophy and that came later. The moment he saw her, the moment he turned around to get rid of an unwelcome visitor and saw _her_, standing there alive and breathing, so broken and small in her shabby hospital gown, so lost, so helpless, so his… He was stunned – blown over – completely, utterly destroyed. A hurricane of emotions took him over – if his magic were with him then, he would have probably blasted his surroundings away with the sheer force of his feelings. He could not believe she was there, for it was beyond belief. He was terrified, for it was incomprehensible. He was overwhelmed, for it was a miracle. He was not glad, for he could not be glad when his heart ached for her. He did not know what she has been through, but one glance told him she suffered, and her sufferings left their mark; her inner glow seemed to be… dimmer somehow, as if obscured by pain.

He must have frightened her with the intensity of his reaction; he certainly embarrassed her. She did not know him, and the shivering emotional mess he appeared to be must have been repulsive; even kindest of people always react with mild distaste to emotional displays in which they have no part. As he embraced her, and felt her stiffen in his arms, he thought, briefly, that their roles were reversed now: he loved her with all the intensity his heart possessed, and she was shut out from him, unreachable and distant. And oh, how he loved her – the moment he touched her, the moment his face was buried in her hair and he felt her scent, the moment her breath warmed his skin his love rushed back to him, blotting out his shock and his apprehension, bringing him back to life, swelling his heart with pain and longing such as he never knew. They were even stronger now than back then when he first knew her, for they were deepened by the loss, and highlighted by the miracle of having her back. He thought he'd never feel these things – he thought he had no right to them. And now he was granted the right, and felt them.

He has lost her, he died with her, and now she was back with him.

He wondered how he survived the moment.

She was so lost and helpless now, so dependent on him he did not know what to do. In the years of his mourning for her he came to think of her as of a source of light, he regarded her as some beacon of hope with an unerring instinct for good and right. When he dreamed of her, he trusted her to give him a sense of direction. Yet now she trusted him, and he was supposed to show the way. He was not fit for this task.

He felt frightened he'd let her down.

They say that fear is the door through which darkness enters our hearts. It is true. For fear of failing her, he felt the need to find strength. To find the strength, he had to get his magic back. He never stopped to think that magic was what stood between them before. He needed to feel confident, and there was only one way to find confidence.

As they walked through the woods, he felt guilty – she was obviously tired of walking, confused and unhappy, what was he thinking of, taking her with him? Yet, how could he have left her behind, and go away risking he'd come back to the empty shop – to the realization that her return was an illusion born in his grief-ridden mind, which finally collapsed under strain? He had to have her near him. He had to feel her hand in his, to make sure she was real.

And yet he let her fall slightly behind as he walked on impatiently, waiting for things to happen – for the curse to break. He knew he'd feel it – it was his curse, for goodness sake. He'd never thought he'd be too distracted to notice the magic twist, and that the news would come to him with her voice, calling him by his real name, and telling him she loved him.

She told him that because she knew it about herself. He did not feel her love – not like he used to, when it came flooding, threatening to destroy him with its force.

May be it was because there was no magic in this land. May be it was because she was not completely herself, yet. May be it was because he was, after all, cursed.

May be it was a good thing that her love didn't come as a destructive invasive force. It just glowed, warmly, and felt as hot breath on a frozen palm in winter.

He was standing there in the woods, looking into her beautiful eyes, which were searching his face, waiting for his reaction, fearful of his wrath. He remembered their parting. He felt his guilt and his helplessness. That was when the thought that her return did not really change anything or brought them any hope hit him. And he knew, at once, that he must redeem himself in her eyes – exactly because their situation was hopeless he had to do it. He had to tell her that she was right, that he was the one who shied away from the truth, just as she told him then. They loved each other, and it _mattered_ – he had to acknowledge that. He owed it to her, and to himself.

He told her he loved her, and his reward was great. She came into his arms, and the complete ease of her action, the unconditional trust in him it shoved, felt like a physical power. It _warmed_ him, if even just for a second, and then he realized just how cold his life has been all that time. Yet she was able to help him thus because he was strong enough to encourage her. He needed more strength. He needed his magic and, when it was back, he was amazed how easy – how natural – how normal it felt, to have it with him again. He never realized, till he came to this land, just how much his magic was part of him. He always thought it was brought on by the curse. Now he wondered if perhaps it was always in him, somewhere, and was just awakened by his fury, and his grief, and the murder he committed with the magical dagger.

Yet, with the return of magic, darkness in him stirred disturbingly. He could not just stand there, in the light of his personal miracle of love lost and found. He was compelled to let the shadows in. He needed to know what caused him grief. Learning the circumstances of her plight, he placed the guilt immediately on himself. Regina would have never known about her if he were not careless – she would never do anything if she didn't want to weaken him. _He_ was to blame; he knew it just as surely as when he was hitting her father, punishing him for her death while the blame rested entirely on _his_ shoulders. He was the one who had her love, but shut her out – her fate was his fault. Yet he had to punish her father, for he could find no punishment great enough for himself – a thousand deaths would not do. And now he had to punish someone else, again, for it was impossible to be near her while this dark anger lived in him.

And he wanted to have her near him – he wanted it more then ever before in his life, for he felt today that something changed between them. There was always, even when he loved and desired her with passion that drove him insane, even when she loved him with force great enough to break through his curse, some alienation between them. If he had stopped to think clearly, while he was dreaming of her in his chamber, he would have realized that they were hardly compatible – they were from different species. She must have felt it, too – that was why she called him ugly; she just expressed herself rather tactlessly, but essentially she was right: he was very _different_ from her. It was difficult, nearly impossible to picture his gold-crusted lips really touching hers.

This alienation was gone now. He thought of that as his human hand touched her human cheek now. It looked natural. It felt easy. It was magical in its own way that he could kiss her now without magical changes coming over them. He could just kiss her, deeply, as he always wanted, and feel her softness in his arms, and be close to her.

'We can be together', she said. And she was right. It was _possible_.

As he kissed her gently parted lips, for the first time in his life he gloried in his human self. He finally felt it – the softness and wetness of her youthful mouth, fresh and light, yet hinting at the darker softness and wetness that he could also discover now. He had thought of it so often, imagined it so often, was aroused and ashamed by it so often – and now he was doing it, he was kissing her, and she _wanted _him to kiss her. Clumsily, but eagerly she opened her lips wider, and desire seared through him like pain, fraying his nerves, alerting him to everything in her; she was overwhelmingly real, and he thought of how long he waited for her, and instinctively deepened the kiss, touching her tongue with his, feeling his muscles tightening. She drew away from him then, shyly – he must have been too intense, he frightened her, and she was so fragile yet.

Her head came to rest on his shoulder, and he embraced her almost convulsively, wishing to feel her body against his, but also wishing to shelter her from the world. True love or not, magical force or just a force of nature, she was with him, they were together, and he would never, never let anything tear her from his embrace. He would never lose her again. He would find a way to do what he needs to do, and keep her.

To make sure of that, he had to defeat his enemies. And he had to punish the woman who made her suffer.

The man in him argued that they needed protection. The beast in him growled in anticipation of fun.

He took her home. For all her enthusiasm for kissing, for all the happy glow of her radiant face, it was obvious that she was deadly tired. She has been through a lot today – she escaped from her prison, she walked the woods with him, she discovered her true self, and they survived a kiss they both, in their hearts, not only wanted but also feared. She needed to rest.

He left her in the backroom of his shop, sleeping on his camp-bed, dressed in a pretty dress he charmed for her and covered with his tartan blanket, her shoes kicked off and laying on the floor. She looked relaxed and innocent as a child. He watched her for a while, wondering at the sight of her lovely, bright, _living_ face on his pillow, asking himself if, dark and damaged and flawed as he was, he even had a right to touch her – to bind her to him. Yet it was done, already, he reminded himself – he should have thought of that before he asked her to promise him his 'forever', and got her promise.

He hated to get away from her – he would have preferred to sit by her side, guarding her dreams, making sure nothing unpleasant touched her. But he had things to do. Unpleasant ones.

He sealed the shop with the strongest protection spell he could summon, and went away to summon Regina's wraith.


	19. Chapter 19

19

He should have been exultant with the things he did that day. His plan worked to perfection, the curse was broken, his magic was back, he had the satisfaction of using his darkest powers to summon a terrible force and attack his enemy. But everything has been upset – set off – by the unplanned, unexpected, and incomprehensible miracle of Belle's return. Her appearance eclipsed everything else; it was so much bigger than everything else that it kind of stood between him and his actions. Magic was back only to stand between them. Revenge upon Regina had an aftertaste of a broken promise, and he kept imagining disappointment in Belle's eyes when she'd learn the truth. She always wanted him to be a good man – she believed him to be a good man. And, however naïve her wish was, he felt nice trying to please her. He told himself that technically he did not break his promise: he wasn't killing the Queen with his own hands, and actually he wasn't killing her at all – just trapping her soul in a supernatural prison. But somehow he was sure Belle wouldn't be impressed by nuances. She'd feel compassionate towards her tormentor – that was part of her sweet nature, her unbreakable goodness. But that would be just a part of her distress. The main thing would be her disappointment in him – her sadness at his lie, her sadness at his fall. God knows what she saw in him back then, when she tried to break his curse and find the man he once were – a man she would but pity, if she'd notice him at all; God knows what she saw in him now, when he was so drastically changed outwardly.

He did not doubt his actions even for a second – he did what was necessary to do and was sure of that. He just didn't want to look bad in her eyes. He wanted her to _like_ him, not just to be magically in love him.

There was another thing that spoiled the day for him. He was distracted. He couldn't really concentrate on any of his actions for he was constantly thinking of her; did she wake up, what was she doing, what was she thinking, was she all right? He wanted to get rid of his immediate tasks and get back to her as soon as possible. He wanted to _be_ with her. He hoped she wasn't up yet. He wanted her to see him when she opened her eyes. What would she see in his face? What will she say? Will she still believe she loves him? Would she kiss him? He wanted her to. He wanted to get back to that moment in the forest, magical in its simplicity, when they just kissed each other, starting to get to know each other as human beings.

When he came back to the shop, she was still asleep, but showing signs that she'd wake up soon: her head moved across the pillow, she'd thrown off her blanket, as if she was hot. He became exceedingly nervous – the anticipation was too much to handle, and he decided to occupy his hands with something; he often did that, applied himself to some simple manual task, like cleaning objects from the shop, when his nerves got the better of him. This time, he decided to brew tea. She would be thirsty after sleep – surely she'd welcome a cup of tea.

He was just heating the pot with boiling water when they came – the good ones, the loving couple he united and that daughter of theirs; such a promising girl, alight with magic, it was amazing that a person could be so gifted and yet wouldn't feel her gift at all. They came to accuse him of something, as usual; it was so predictable he didn't even get hurt. He brushed them off. He had no time for them. _She_ was in the next room – there was nothing that could hurt him or seriously occupy him compared to that. Yet, when they left, he still felt unsettled – he must have been upset. Otherwise, he couldn't have been so startled when she came out and confronted him with his broken promise. He'd have found the words to explain himself properly.

And he definitely wouldn't snap at her when she voiced her disappointment. 'I thought you'd changed', she said, sadly. And he retorted with an ironic 'What, in an hour that you've known me?' His question was entirely justified – she did not know him any better now than she did back then, and her only reason to believe he'd changed was his appearance. He might have been actually insulted by her attitude, which hinted that all their problems consisted in his looks and, as long as he did not manifest evil by being green, it was fine with her. Some true love was that, if she didn't look deeper than his skin. He might have also been irritated by the quickness of her judgment – if anyone was fast at jumping to conclusions that was she. Yes, he might have had the right to be offended and irritated. But he had no right to snap at her. Not after what happened to them in the past. Not after what she'd been through. No quips would serve them now; and anyway, the words that might have sounded lighter – ironic and teasing – spoken by his prattling green alter ego somehow didn't come out right now. It was no tease and no leading question. It sounded as downright insult.

She was out of door the moment he spoke and, though he did shout his apology to her retreating back, he did not sound convincing, for he was still angry himself. How could she be so childish? It was amazing – they were hardly back together, they were actually never together before, yet they already bickered like an old married couple. It showed a pattern, and a very sad one. It did not matter that she didn't have the time to know him; she wanted him to be the man he wasn't – she saw somebody else in him, or imagined it. She loved him, but she loved him with an 'if'. God knows he was not in the position to expect unconditional love; he was in no position to expect any sort of love. It was just so completely wrong for her to be with him. He simply could not be the man she wanted – he could not change so much without losing himself. So there was no point in them being together. They would just torment each other, and she'd waste her life on him. And he could not bear a thought of her wasting her life. She was too precious for that.

All that was hopeless. He'd have to let her go, as he let her go all these years ago. That is, if she came back to be released. She didn't look like she'd return. She changed a lot since he ordered her around the castle.

He pictured her, in his mind, as she stood before him when he was sending her away with all the cruelty he could master. He saw her determined face, all collected not to show how much she was hurting, as she delivered her parting shot, putting a spell on him, condemning him to eternal regret and emptiness without her. If only she knew just how effective her words were – how strongly they have contributed to keeping of the bond between them, the bond he tried to break so many times. He did want to break it, so that she'd be free of him, and his pain would stop. Yet it didn't seem to be breakable. He felt it still, even in this land without magic. He felt it now, tugging at his heart, like a physical thing.

With a heavy heart, he looked around the shop. Things he took from the shelf as he started preparing tea still stood on the counter. Her chipped cup was amongst them. The cup he nearly killed her father over… What would she say when she learned of _that_? It appeared that the disgusting fool was completely innocent, after all. He did her no harm.

He himself was the only man that did her harm, ever.

He picked the cup and, fingering it absentmindedly as if trying to find some comfort in the touch, went to his spinning wheel. He had things to do, magic to make, and he had things to forget. He wished the spinning did that, as he told her once. As it were, spinning only helped him to remember.

He sat there working yet part of him, the part that was always alert to magic happening around, sensed what was going on in town. He felt the wraith finding Regina, he felt it crushing things around it, he felt the struggle around the magic hat, the surge of light magic – must be Emma's, and the closing of the portal. He saw the scene as clearly as if he were there in the room; the magical signatures of events were clear to him. Things didn't go as he planned them. There was trouble ahead. It would have to be dealt with. But he couldn't be bothered with these things now – if he was needed, people would come to him. They always did come, however much they despised and hated him. And that was the only way in which he could relate to people: by despondency and fear and despair. Never, never by love.

And then he sensed it – the stirring in the air, the quickening of time as something powerful and bright approached the shop. She was coming back.

Was he cursed to be forever that much alert to her closeness?

She came back and stood by the door awkwardly.

He looked up from the wheel, trying to appear nonchalant, and succeeding much better than back then, in his castle, when she also came back and saw him spinning, and attacked him with her newborn love. He had to gather himself together and say what he needed to as calmly as possible. He had to send her away, again, but there must be no drama. Too many curses bound and separated them already. No more magic.

'I thought you didn't want to see me again?' Yes, that sounded good – calm. No silent screaming of his 'why did you come back' of old. Thought he _did _wonder why she came back, now as much as then.

'I didn't. But I was… worried'. She spoke with some hesitation. Did she also realize how much the scene mirrored, in an understated, human way, the one that happened before?

Ah, how clearly he remembered her face, then, mellow and shining, as she said: 'I wasn't going to. But then something changed my mind'. That was just before she kissed him, and their world came apart.

He told her there was nothing to worry about, which was not entirely true, but details did not concern her.

They seemed to have run out of topics for conversation.

And then she noticed the chipped cup standing beside him on a small table. Her face lit up with tenderness: 'Oh, you still have it – my chipped cup!'

She moved closer, picking it up. He stood up, looking at her with sadness. He wanted to tell her how many times this small cup drove him mad and saved him. How many times, back in the old times, he cried over it. How many times, while living under the curse, he'd touch it and feel a sudden rush of something, which felt like a memory of her, and how it tortured and consoled him. He wanted to tell her how, on the night he remembered himself, he came home, hardly feeling his legs, and went straight through to the cupboard where he kept the cup, and took it into his hands, and relived their love, and how he wept, and how he took the little piece of china to bed with him; clutching it to his heart, he felt she was with him. He wanted to tell her how he nearly killed her father about this cup. He wanted to tell her that it stood by his wheel now because he wanted to pretend that she was sitting by his side as he worked, as she used to sit so many years ago, in a different world. But if he told her all that, they would start thinking of love again. And that would make letting her go that much harder.

So instead of all that, he took the cup from her hands, and said: 'There are many, many things in this shop. But this… This is the only thing I truly cherish'. She looked at him with such devotion and such compassion that his heart was ready to break. That look alone told him he must set her free. His life was not a place for her. He gathered his strength and said evenly: 'And now, you must leave'.

'What?' A shock registered on her face – it was surprise, but not pain; and he felt relieved. Perhaps she would not think of other times when he rejected her. Perhaps she doesn't need him as much as he needs her. Perhaps his curse works, and she doesn't really love him. Oh, let it be so – she wouldn't suffer if it were so.

'You must leave because, despite what you hope, I am still a monster'. That was as close as he could come to telling her he cannot truly change, ever.

She gave him the brightest of smiles, though her eyes brimmed with tears – she looked… relieved, too, as if she feared something worse, but was happy to hear that he was only talking of some minor misunderstanding. She put her hands on his shoulders – would similarities between their meetings ever seize? – and spoke, still smiling, still nearly crying: 'Don't you see? This is exactly the reason I have to stay'.

He drew away, alarmed and disappointed. Why was she so stubborn? 'Why? To free me? To save me? To kill the beast?'

His voice sounded harsh, but she paid him no heed. 'No'. She hesitated, looking into his guarded eyes, searching for a measure of encouragement and finding none. Despite his apparent coldness, she gathered her courage, and blushed, and blurted out: 'I have to stay because you are still the man I fell in love with'.

He went pale. 'I don't understand'.

She shook her head, but then looked into his eyes again. 'I didn't understand, too. And you don't understand. I did want to help, and did want to free the person I see in you, but not for myself. Not really. I wanted to do it for you. You were in pain – oh, Rumplestiltskin, do you know how much _pain_ there is in you, and how one feels it? From right here', she put one hand on his chest, right over the heart, and another over her own heart, 'from right here, it goes right _here_. I thought that if things changed, you'd feel better. But then I thought – may be there is no need to change things. May be I can just make you feel better, by being there. I was on my way to find out when I was… stopped. Well, things are changed now, but you are still in pain. It feels like you are in greater pain than before – you are so much sadder now. And that means you are still the man I love, and I want to make you feel better. Don't tell me that I don't have the power to do it. Don't you dare'.

A rush of emotions came over him. Regret – pointless regret that things couldn't have been clearer and simpler between them, back then and now. Humility – he was such a worthless man, compared to her. Gratitude – for being forgiven and accepted. Fear, for he was faced with a great force. Hope – blinding hope that things might, just might work out for them. And then there was a physical thing – a feeling of her warm small palm on his chest, pressing against the fabric of his shirt and going right trough it to his skin, binding them together in some very basic and simple way. And, all these things combined, it was love – love that he felt taking him over, and making his heart lighter, and somehow it didn't frighten him anymore.

His mouth went slack, for he suddenly found himself on the verge of tears. He knew he must answer her, but he could not speak – he had no voice and no words. He just reached out to her, and pressed her to his chest, burying his face in her hair. Her cup was still in his hand – he held it behind her back.

He didn't close his eyes. He wanted to be certain that he was here, in his shop, with her, and that what was happening was real, and not just one of his lonely dreams.

It seemed that his embrace was a good enough answer, for he felt her sigh happily against his neck. He felt her breath on his skin, and he felt her body, all the gentle curves of it, pressed to his, and something quite apart from hopes and words and revelations woke in him. Her hands were crossed behind his back, her palms resting on the small of his back, warm. Her lips were touching his shirt-collar, an inch away from his bare skin. The fabric of her dress was thin, and he felt her nipples hardening as her breasts brushed his chest. Her skirt was short, and the stockinged skin of her thigh burned his trouser-leg, unbearably close to his groin.

His whole body tensed, hardening, just as it always did when he thought of her in the past – just as it did when she fell into his arms from the ladder. He remembered his mad longing, and felt it again. He remembered his shame, but that didn't surface now. Things were different now. They were not happening just to him, he wasn't imagining them. She was not a fantasy, she was not a memory. She was real, and in his embrace. She was here, with him, she told him she loved him, and he knew he loved her. And where there's love, there is no shame, and no holding back.

He drew away from her, for a second, and she gave him a startled look. He shook his head, indicating her cup, which he placed gently on the table: 'We don't want to break it accidentally, do we? It has been through a lot'.

Just as you were, he thought with terrible and deep sadness. She was a damaged and fragile little thing, and she was his. He will not let her fall and break again. He would never let her out of his grasp again.

With his hands free, he cupped her face, his fingers brushing her cheeks, tracing her ears, coming down to her slender neck. He looked at her face as if drinking it in – absorbing it. She looked up at him with something akin awe – her magical eyes widened, her lips were parted, and they glistened in the dusk of the room, and she seemed to be holding her breath.

'I always wondered…' she started, and then bit her lip shyly.

'What?' He answered in a whisper, careful not to shatter the moment.

She smiled, not taking her gaze off his face: 'I always wondered what color your eyes were'.

And then it crushed him – the enormousness of their miracle, the overpowering force of their bond, the stunning unreal reality of them being together. She looked into his monster's face, back then, and was thinking of the color of his eyes. She wanted to touch him – to reach him. All the time when he was driving himself crazy over her and condemning himself for daring to do it, she _was _thinking of him – she did want him. Oh what a fool he was to let it go. To think of the time wasted. To think of his longing, and hers.

He lowered his head and kissed her on the lips. He had kissed her already, but this time it was different – there was no apprehension, no fear now. He traced the outline of her mouth with his tongue, he pushed it gently between her lips to open them wider, and then he licked her teeth, as they parted, and then he found her tongue, and sucked on it, gently. She gasped. He let her go, for an instant, for he wanted to lick her lips now and to suck them – the top one first, the lower one second, and then he went inside her mouth again.

Her fingers clutched his shoulders – she needed to support herself. He looked into her face, briefly. She was flushed, her eyes half-closed, her breathing shallow. She was melting in his arms, as he imagined and dreamed she would.

'No magic today?' he whispered into her lips.

'This is magic', she said, her voice hardly audible.

He kissed her again, and let his hand slip from her neck down to her breast, tracing the peaking nipple with his knuckles through the silk of her dress. She uttered a soft moan, like a kitten, and her hands released his shoulders as she started tucking at his tie. She loosened the knot, and her trembling fingers unbuttoned his shirt, and then her hot soft hands touched his chest, and it was his turn to moan.

If ever she doubted her power over him, she could not doubt it now. He felt like clay in her hands as she touched his ribs and his stomach, and then as her hands slid behind his back and traced his spine. His head was thrown back, his eyes closed; she pressed herself even closer, nuzzling her face against his neck, and kissed his jaw, and then he felt her tongue licking his chin.

He hissed, and clutched her buttocks, pressing her to his groin. Then he started to tear at the fabric of her dress, wishing, briefly, that he had his claws still – then he could have cut the dress neatly, and have her naked. But no, his claws wouldn't do to touch her skin – the softest, warmest, gentlest thing he touched in his life.

He had lost count of the times when he imagined her in his arms. He loved her, yes, but he also wanted her – yearned. Yet even the wildest of his dreams could not match the overwhelming reality of being with her. Nothing he did shocked or surprised her – whatever he did, she returned, as if taking a hint. As her dress fell on the floor, she looked at him intently, her eyes misty, her lips swollen, and reached to unbutton his trousers. He caught her hand, stopping it for a second – he had to get rid of his shoes first. He kicked them off, and swayed momentarily – he forgot about his bad leg; it was amazing just how… undamaged he felt with her. He leaned against the table, taking his socks off, than stood in front of her. She still had her underwear on, and her stockings. Her shoes were off. Her hair was wild. His shirt was open, his loose tie still on his neck, his feet bare.

They were still standing by the wheel were they kissed.

The scene was wild, hot, intense, and embarrassing. They could not go on like this – in the shop, among this junk, in such unfitting conditions.

Or could they?

The momentary pause didn't seem to bring either of them to their senses. She still faced him bravely. He breathed ruggedly, trying to take in what he saw.

The most beautiful woman in the world – that's who she was to him. His woman.

He offered her his outstretched hand. 'Come'.

She nodded.

He limped heavily as they moved towards the bed where she slept today – he had no idea where his cane was. She didn't seem to mind that he was crippled – she seemed ready to accept anything about him. And it really, really went into his head.

He sat on the bed, drawing her closer to him, pressing his face to her abdomen. She shivered, but not from revulsion. His hands slid down her legs, taking her stockings off, brushing her skin. Her breathing quickened. Her hands were on his shoulders again, taking off his shirt. I must look miserable to her, he thought – not green and beastly now, yet still old and bony and worn, while she is so, so beautiful. But she didn't seem to mind – she lowered her head, and kissed his shoulder. He caught her breast with his left hand, and his mouth found her nipple, while his right hand touched her between the legs.

She was wet for him, and he completely lost his head. In a matter of seconds she was beneath him on the bed. Her underwear was gone, as were his clothes. Kneeling in front of her, he spread her legs apart, and then he froze, looking into her startled face.

What was he doing? What was he thinking? Was he, indeed, a beast? Was this tangle on the camp-bed in the back room of the shop a fitting way to meet the expectations of a life-time?

He hovered over her, slowly coming to his senses, seeing himself as if from a distance, descending into shame and self-loathing.

She looked at him with wide eyes, unable to understand the change in him.

He looked at her, spread on his narrow bed, naked, white-skinned, glowing; her breasts heaving, her nipples small, her pubic hair dark, her skin damp, her scent intoxicating, so beautiful he felt like crying. She looked so pure. So untouchable.

And then she reached towards him and took his erection into her hand, placing her other hand over his heart.

'Let me love you', she said, trying to catch his eye.

His heart stopped, and a great shudder came over his body. The pain that he believed to be a part of him seeped out, leaving him weightless.

'Yes', he breathed out. 'Yes, Belle, yes'.

Gently, very gently he touched her between the legs again, his fingers tangling in the short hair, reaching the hot, slightly rubbery flesh, seeking the narrow opening, hearing her gasp, and stifling it with a kiss. She opened up to him, and relaxed, as his fingers kneaded her, and then she moaned. She was moaning for him, softly, and he knew he would never be able to stop now, and he would never be able to live without hearing this moan over and over again.

He removed his hand, and placed his erection in its stead. He pushed in, quickly, not really able control himself any longer. She never tensed, not even for an instant.

And then he seized to be, for he was turned into her – taken inside her and lost there. He had no soul, and no being apart from her. He was her – her darkness and her wetness, the ripples and the tightening of her insides. He was her eyes, opened in wonder. He was her voice, calling him. He was her sigh, and her soft outcry.

He was her light. For a moment, for one blinding moment inside her, taking her in and giving himself away, he felt no darkness in him, none at all.

When things around them returned to the semblance of reality, he realized he was still on top of her, still inside her – they were tangled so tightly the narrow bed didn't feel narrow at all. He was embracing her, feeling her breasts against his chest. Her hands were wrapped around him, her feet resting on his back. He raised his head to look at her face.

She looked solemn and calm. With one hand she reached to touch his face, placing her palm against his cheek – his skin tensed under her touch.

'You are beautiful', she said.

That was when he cried.


	20. Chapter 20

20

Some days she felt like she was battering her head against the brick wall. Some nights she felt she was blessed. Everything in her life – everything about Him – was extreme. There was either despair or ecstasy, and nothing in between. Nothing normal. The man she knew during the day baffled and frustrated her – he was remote, incommunicative, closed like an oyster; if she asked him something, he brushed her away or joked, trying to sound lighthearted. He never really opened to her, never explained her things and she felt that her ultimate wish – to know him – kept eluding her. During the day he behaved as if admitting his devotion to her was a sign of weakness. If anyone saw them together, they would not believe that these two people shared a bed – that passion bound them with quite frightening force. They were almost awkward around each other. He was ceremonious and distant with her when they were dressed; his clothes were like armor against her and his own feelings towards her. She understood that: her lover was fiercely proud, and could not admit how much he depended on her. Yet she was hurt, for she felt she deserved such an admission. She knew how much she means to him, for the man she knew at night was completely opposed to his buttoned-up day version. He was revealed to her to the extreme; he was not simply naked, it seemed that he had no skin and she could touch his raw flesh any moment, and to hurt him terribly as well as give him unrivalled pleasure. No barriers stood between them then – she could ask for anything and have her wish granted instantly. Yet it was no use – at night, all she could think of asking was _him_: his touch, his kiss, his voice whispering her name. And that he gave her without asking.

She knew him inside out, knew every inch of his body and felt his every mood, and yet she did not know him at all. It was so frustrating. She felt like a girl in some old tale that was abducted by a monster and married to him and then was visited by her husband only at night, in complete darkness, and was sworn to never try and have a look at him. One night, as he slept, she did have a look, and saw a beautiful youth instead of a beast she expected, but then she scorched him with oil from her lamp, accidentally, and he woke up and was gone, and she had to spend a lifetime looking for him, and he only reappeared as she was dying of broken heart. She didn't want such a fate. She didn't think she needed to prove her love – it was apparent. And it hurt her that her lover kept hiding from her.

It frightened her how dependent on him she had become. The image of herself standing on the empty terrain with no one but him to keep her company has become absolute – it seized to be an image and became reality. Back in the old times she had a memory of her family; though distant, they existed, and there was a remote possibility of seeing them again. Here, in this world, he was her only companion – the only human being that she saw or talked to. He seemed to be sheltering her from the world – he kept her locked in the house, not as a prisoner, of course, she never thought that, but closely guarded still. She could understand him and his worries – she was abducted once, she was taken from him, and he spent a long time believing her lost forever, and he was not a man to forget that easily. He was very possessive, and he cared for her – of course he had to make sure no harm befell her. Yet she did wonder sometimes why he couldn't trust her a little more. She was not a child, after all.

What disturbed her even more than his paranoid obsession with her security were her own feelings. She felt she was completely wrapped in him – she thought only of him, she was restless if he were away, she longed for him constantly. In a way, she was almost as paranoid as he. Perhaps the memory of their separation, the time she spent in prison wishing desperately to be reunited with him, left its mark. Every moment he was away, she would panic: what if he never returned? What if they were lost to each other again? How would she live without him – what would she live _for_? He was her whole world, and not just because she knew no other men. She just felt that this one, her man, was irreplaceable for her. And it was not simply emotional despondency. She realized, with a measure of surprise natural in a girl raised up as a princess in an ancient kingdom, that she was physically… obsessed with him. His closeness, the feel of his skin, his scent, the touch of his lips, the fullness and hunger she felt as he entered her body, the look of his eyes, the sight of his intense face – all that was like a drug to her. She could spend hours just looking at him or gently caressing him. Sometimes, when he slept, she would lay by his side, watching his face, weary and relaxed, marveling at his fine, dry features; she'd run her fingers through his hair, straight and graying now, but just as silky as his 'beastly' mane used to be; she'd look at his body, at his beautiful hands and feet and his brittle spine, and remember that morning in the Dark Castle when she saw him sleeping on the bed naked and became acutely aware of him, physically. She thought him alien and beautiful then, and thought that touching him would be impossible. Yet now, she was not so sure. She felt that, if things worked out differently between them, she'd have loved to run her hand across his gold-speckled skin. It felt wonderful to press her face to his back and embrace him, kissing him between shoulder blades, running her hands across his stomach and towards his groin; it felt wonderful to hear his exited grunt, to feel his fingers entwine with hers as he caught her hand, and to feel his body tensing and hardening under her touch. He was like a drug to her; his reaction to her was a drug more powerful still. Perhaps such was the way of each and every love. She wouldn't know: her love for him was the only love she knew.

It hurt her terribly to wake up alone in their bed – she felt cold and neglected when he'd wake up before her, dress and go on his secret errands, which he did quite often; in this world, his habit of going to bed late and sleeping long into the morning has changed – he was an early riser now. One morning, she woke up alone after a really bad dream – a dream in which his double nature revealed itself in a particularly nasty way, a dream in which he didn't seem to care for her at all. Finding him gone, she felt close to tears – she was frightened, she needed his compassion; she wanted him near her. She felt desolate, and she went looking for him, and found him in his basement spinning and doing magic. His insistence on magic was just one of many things about which he'd keep her in the dark, and that morning, after her nightmare, it was too much. She did not object to magic as such – she was clever enough to understand it was important to him. She just wanted to be told _why_. Why was spinning and brewing some potion more important then being near her as she woke up? Why was magic more important then she was? She confronted him, got his usual brush-off, and suddenly had it again, this horrible feeling of being unable to reach him. She was angry; he was the meaning of her life, yet he kept being elusive with her. She needed to make a stand – to show him that his attitude hurt her.

She ran away, and life promptly gave her a harsh lesson. It seemed that the second she was out of his sight, she was in danger. She was abducted again, and her own father, whom she just found, threatened to destroy her memory simply out of spite towards her lover – that was a blow that nearly crushed her. She felt awful, as if she were not a living person, but a thing – an object of trade-off between grown-ups. That was when she realized she had to get herself some life of her own. It was self-destructive to depend on someone as much as she depended on Him. What would become of her if they were separated again? What would become of her if he died? She had to become a wholesome being that she had been before he took her away from her father's castle, otherwise she wouldn't survive. She felt awful as she told him he should stay away from her – telling him to leave her alone felt like cutting off her hand or tearing her heart out. Even as she spoke, she wondered if she were destroying her life. Yet she braced herself, and spoke of her feelings, and was pierced by the despair in his eyes.

But, oh wonder of wonders, it helped. He did come around – he changed his ways about her. He did what she always wanted him to do – he spoke to her, frankly. As he stood in the library he opened for her, as he told her his story, as he confessed his feelings and fears she could sense his tension; revealing himself like that was physically painful for him. Yet he did it, for her, and she knew than that he truly loved her. And she realized suddenly: that was where her strength lay. It was in his love. That was something that would give her courage and power to survive if she found herself alone. Whatever happened, he loved her; however difficult it was for him to express himself, he loved her; whenever he would admit it or not, he needed her. _That_ was her reason to live. It was strange to realize that being the love of somebody's life is the reason for your existence. She was raised up in a place and in times when love was an abstract concept rather then reality to be taken into consideration. She was raised to serve her country by being a good wife and a proper queen. She was prepared for a life of duty and never really expected to love and to be loved. Yet that was exactly what has become her duty. She loved a very difficult man, and was loved by him. That was a full-time job, and only she could do it.

And, as she realized all that, her love became her choice. It was not simply conditioned by magical deals and transcendent bonds anymore; she was with him not just because a spell separated her from the rest of the world and she had no one else but him to turn to. Her love was part of herself – a conscious decision as well as emotion. And whatever weird things he did now, whatever unpleasant stories she learned about him, it did not matter anymore – she knew there was nothing irrational in her attachment to him. She stayed with him for _herself_. She knew that people in town thought her crazy for being with him; they could not understand what 'such a good girl was doing with this bastard'. They thought she was wasting her life, yet she didn't care what they thought. Even he could not fully grasp why she stayed with him – she saw it in his eyes sometimes: the wonderment at her presence, the sadness at her devotion, and the unasked question of the reasons for her dedication. He asked her why she came back, all that time ago, and she couldn't give him a coherent answer. He seemed to be asking it all the time, still – there was often a look in his eyes that said: 'You couldn't be real, and mine. I will lose you eventually'. She was ready to fight that look now. She just would not let him lose her. Her answer would have been simple now. 'I came back because I_ wanted_ to', she'd have said.

She was back into his bed very soon after their talk in the library – he was so upset after his confrontation with Regina in the diner that she just had to go with him and comfort him in a way she knew best; she couldn't bear to see how worried for her he was, and how he needed to be reassured of her presence in his life; also, she wanted to come to his bed – she missed him so much. She did not hurry to move back into his house – she wanted a bit of space to let her newly found confidence grow. There was no hurry – she knew there would be time for everything now that she finally was at peace with herself. She felt secure in his arms as he came to comfort her when the pirate attacked her in the library. She felt very strong and proud as she helped him when the scarf he needed to find his son was stolen. She stood by his side as he tested the potion necessary to cross the town border. She felt she was fulfilling her duty, and she knew she was exactly where she was needed. In a way, it was not that different from serving her country, as she was prepared to – only she was serving her heart now, and gloried in it.

As they stood by the border, he outside the line, but still knowing himself and loving her, she inside, reaching towards him with her whole being, the moment was truly magical. Never, never was she surer of herself and of him. Never, never had she loved him more. She felt that nothing was beyond their power now – nothing could ever come between them; they were truly and fully united. She looked into his eyes, and knew she were home.

And then she felt a searing pain, and a wave of unnatural coldness, and her mind went blank; she found herself alone in a vastness filled with nothing, blinded by darkness, frightened and lost, and in her head she screamed like a wounded animal.

Only it was a silent scream, and nobody heard it.


	21. Chapter 21

21

Looking back at his life he could name but a few moments when he felt truly happy. He was happy when he married and bedded his wife for the first time: she was beautiful and passionate, and her body delivered all it promised then – unlike later, when she came to despise him and barely tolerated his touch, turning her very submission into an insult. He was happy when he held his son in his arms for the first time, and his heart unraveled at the purely physical feeling of this little person belonging to him, being part of him, unquestionably and unconditionally. He was happy when he discovered he loved Belle, for the first time, and lay in bed marveling at the miracle of her existence. But in the time he spent with her here, in this world, he'd lost count of moments – they were so many. The moments when he'd open his eyes in the morning and meet her eyes smiling at him. The moments when, even before opening his eyes, he'd feel the warmth of her body beside his, and reach out to clasp her hand. The moments when he'd be busy with something, and then she'd enter the room, visibly brightening it. The moment when, after she left him over his inability to be honest with her, and he came to explain himself, and did so with much effort, and started to leave the library, he heard her voice, asking him uncertainly on that silly hamburger date. All the moments when she was smiling up at him; all the moments when, walking beside him, she'd slip her hand under his arm, cuddling closer. The moment when they stood across the town border, and she looked at him with complete trust, her eyes full of love and bright with confidence in him – in them. He was happy then.

Looking back at his life, he could name many moments when he felt despair. He was desperate as he sat in his dark hut, watching Bae sleep, counting the hours before his birthday when the Duke's soldiers would come and take him away to slaughter. He was desperate as he howled on the spot where the magical portal just closed, taking his son away. He was desperate as he crushed his wife's heart in his hand, knowing, at that very instant, that he was doing a truly stupid and unforgivable thing, yet being unable to stop. He was desperate as he was sending Belle away and sacrificing the miracle they had for his need to amend his own mistakes. He was desperate when he believed her dead, and realized that even if – no, when – he found his son and redeemed himself, he'd never feel alive again, for there was no life for him without her. He thought he was desperate then.

Yet, as he kneeled beside her at the border, and looked into her empty eyes, and heard her frightened scream as she begged him to get away from her, he realized he knew nothing about despair; not yet. True despair he had yet to learn. He had to live through the desolation that entered his heart as he felt their bond snap – the new curse that came upon her fell on it like an axe, cutting a living thing in two, leaving the severed parts to bleed, trashing, on the ground. He had to live through frantic attempts to recover what was lost – he had to live through failure, over and over again. He had to live through blinding hope that true love would overcome her curse – if it were able to wake the dead, why not this? He never even stopped to consider what his kiss might do to him; even if it turned him human, so what? He'd have dealt with it, somehow. He would have dealt with anything if she were with him again. And yet he failed, and had to live through thinking that he was to blame for his failure; perhaps the curse he put upon himself stood in his way now, muddying their love, obscuring its force and true nature. He had to live through blaming himself for everything he ever did – it felt like his every action in life brought on that present horror.

He had to live to see her shrink from him in fear, to hear her scream at his sight; he had to live to see her break their cup, and feel as if she broke his heart, hurling it against the wall. He had to live through picking up the pieces, and feeling their dead weight in his hand.

True despair came with hopelessness, and he realized, with great humility, that he never before in his life felt truly hopeless; even in the darkest hours of his existence, he always had hope. True despair came with helplessness. He was so accustomed to power – he always believed his magic was omnipotent, yet it failed now. And even before magic, even as a weak human he knew he could always do _something_ – run, beg, use his wits, fight. He was completely helpless now – he could not do anything, anything at all.

He thought he was desperate when he lost her in the past, and was dying of pain, and losing his mind in the darkness of his solitude. Yet it was nothing compared to what he felt now, having known happiness and lost it.

He knew exactly why it happened, of course. He was paying the price for having her returned to him, alive. He was paying for a glimpse of happiness he experienced. He was paying for being distracted from his sworn quest. For an instant, for one dazzling instant he let himself go – he lived as if he deserved to live, he lived as if he forgot his vow to never love anything or anybody until he found his son. He broke his vow, and now he paid for it. And, as darkness followed everywhere he went, he took her along when he fell – he destroyed her life, as he always knew he would. He had no right to have anything for himself; yet, by wanting her for himself, he made her pay for his crimes. There was no punishment great enough for that.

His rush to finally find Bae was but a lame attempt of retribution – a miserable attempt to bargain with fate, saying: 'Look, I am doing what I have sworn to do – I am reformed – I am truly sorry I wavered – could you possibly show me some mercy?' Of course the attempt was doomed – fate doesn't bargain with losers. He felt nothing but helplessness as he traveled towards his son. He had lost his magic as soon as he crossed the border, yet this loss was not important, not really: he had lived without it for years, anyway – there was nothing new in the feeling. But now he lived with the knowledge that his magic was powerless even when he had it. That was what made him mad, that was what made him rage and beat the wall mindlessly in the airport toilet, trying to let some of his pain out of his mind by turning it into physical pain. Human or magical, he could not reach her – that thought filled his mind, driving him desperate, and it but foreshadowed his inability to communicate with his son. It was the cruelest joke fate could play on him: now, when he was so close to achieving his goal, it eluded him, for he lost his dedication; what was foremost for him for centuries became secondary to him in the face of his new loss, and he failed. He did not know what to say to the boy – he could not master proper words and feelings, for his heart wasn't in it. His heart was back there, with her, unwanted and bleeding.

His present surroundings were lost in a heavy haze of a confusing nightmare – nothing felt real. And as his enemy struck him, it did not feel real, too – not at first. He was just so _surprised_. It was strange to feel acute physical pain after centuries of not feeling any blows reach him. And, as very human pain filled his very human body, making him aware that the end of his journey was near, he felt strangely calm – content, almost. He deserved it. He said to himself there was no punishment great enough for his sins, yet he forgot about the ultimate punishment – death. He was paying a price for all that he's done, and it was… adequate. He turned the world around to achieve what he wanted, and it was not fate's fault that he failed. He still had to pay for the chance he was given.

He could not contest this deal. It was fair.

If only he could see her again, just once, before it was all over for him. Nothing mattered now, not anymore, nothing could be changed. Surely he could try and do something for himself, just this one more time? Surely he could give himself a chance to say goodbye.

There was no coherent plan in his mind as he asked to be taken back to his little magical town. He did not have a mind clear enough to think of saving himself – he just wanted to be closer to her. Survival instinct did kick in, eventually; while people scurried around him, trying to help him – oh, the infinite wonder of watching the good ones trying to save _him_, it was unbelievable, it was such a pity he was in no state to enjoy the spectacle… While they fussed around him, he did experience sudden surges of anger and determination; he told himself that he could not be beaten that easily, that he should fight for his life – that he should fight for his chance to see her again. He did work out a sort of a plan, he scared them into acting upon it – he still had it in him to bend them to his will. But the plan hung on a very thin tread, and he had no real faith in it.

He knew it was all over. It was obvious he would never see her again – there was simply no way. So he stopped struggling. He lay there, on the bed where he first made love to her, slipping in and out of consciousness, shaking with fever, listening to his son's worried voice, feeling the waves of magical protectiveness emanating from the girl his son loved, and kept thinking of Her. Even if he had a chance to choose, he would not have found a better place to die. Here, in this room, he knew the supreme joy of being with her. Here, on this bed, her body opened to him. Her scent still lingered here. If he just closed his eyes, he could imagine her near. If he let himself drift, he could just hear her voice, again… 'Let me love you', she said. If he just let himself go, he could forget that she did not love him anymore.

With all his magical powers, he was only human. He did not have the courage to die alone. He had to hear her voice. He had to tell her how much he loved her. It was a selfish wish – he knew it would only confuse her, and upset her. He knew that dying people have no right to presume upon the living, to make them feel ill about things that do not really concern them. It was unfair. People that are dying should not leave such burden with the living. Yet he was weak enough to succumb to his longing for her.

It felt so strange talking to her and knowing she doesn't care. Yet he forced that knowledge from his mind. May be one day she would remember, and then the things he said would matter to her. They would hurt her, yes – but she'd be glad to have something to remember him by. As he heard her surprised and polite small voice over the line, his breath caught. He wanted to tell her so many things. He wanted to tell her of his love – of all the things she meant to him, of all the light and the pain and the power and the glory she brought with her. He wanted to tell her everything about himself – he knew she wanted to know him. But there was no time for that – there was no time for anything anymore, and he had no strength to talk for long. So he told her the most important things – he told her about herself, as he saw her. And the way he saw her was the way she truly were, for he was looking at her through the eyes of love.

He talked quietly, struggling for words, struggling for breath. He listened to her breathing – there on the other end of the line. And when his voice left him, when he felt he doesn't have it in him to utter another word, he heard it – her sob. She sobbed, for him. She was crying for him, there on her hospital bed, so lonely and confused, so lost and helpless. Even so, she found a heart to sob for a man she didn't know. Of course she cried simply because she was a very good, very compassionate, very kind girl, and she probably would have been upset by anyone in his situation. Of course. But for him, the sound of her sob, muffled by the faulty telephone line, meant everything for, as he heard it, he felt it again – their bond, which he thought severed, tugged at his dying heart. The light of it, which he thought extinguished, glowed faintly, but even this shadow of a flame was enough to illuminate the darkness that slowly descended on him.

He closed his eyes, and let his own tears flow freely.

Looking back at his life, he could name but a few moments when he was truly happy. He was happy now.

So when the woman he once thought he loved came to kill him, he felt nothing but great pity for her. And, when she died in his stead, he felt reluctant to get back to living at first. What was the point, what was the purpose of fighting on if he made peace with himself? Yet, as the power filled him again, and brought him to his feet, as he felt the heaviness of his dagger in his hand, he knew what happened. He was given another chance, a chance to live and to love.

He just dreaded to think of the price he would have to pay for that.


	22. Chapter 22

22

People were real kind – real friendly, if you came to think of it. They were fussing around her, visiting her in the hospital, bringing her sweets, bringing her books, for goodness sake! Even the Mayor of the town came; a really friendly lady, that one. The elderly guy in a smart tie came many times, which was kind of him, but slightly embarrassing, for he did impose himself on her a bit and seemed to expect her to respond, somehow. But that was a general problem of all her visitors, actually – they all thought they knew her, and talked to her accordingly, and she, not having a clue whenever they were right or wrong, just smiled and nodded. Whereas now, when she knew herself, she could see that her well-wishers were completely off the mark about her. She was not shy or bookish or dependent, as their compassionate looks suggested; she could take care of herself, thank you very much. She had to – she had been on her own since God knows when: she never knew her mother, and as to her father… Well, she hadn't seen him for a while, and thanks heaven for that: the less caring, boorish, coarse man she could not imagine. As soon as she came of age he got rid of her, practically buying her off with a very 'generous' gift of a one-room apartment on the outskirts of the town. She never spoke to him since, nor had she wanted to. She was happy on her own, in her own small space, where no one would shout at her or to tell her which clothes to wear, or what to do with her time, or to spoil her fun.

That was precisely what she was doing since she left home – having fun. There was plenty to have here, at the bar; people were nice, music was good, and she never had to pay for her drinks – men always insisted on buying her one. And right now, leaning upon the sink at the ladies' and watching her face in the dim mirror, she had a feeling she had had one too many. Her cheeks felt slightly numb, and her vision was a bit bleary; sounds seemed to come as if from a distance. She'd probably have to slow down a little – it was too early in a day for being in such a state. What was the time, actually? She wasn't too sure. She creased her brow, trying to think straight. What time was it when she left home this morning? She didn't seem to be able to recall that. In fact, she didn't remember leaving home at all, or _being_ there at all. Did she spend the night somewhere else? How could she forget that? That was seriously disturbing. She always prided herself in being able to hold her drink – having a proper blackout felt alarming. She concentrated again, with no effect. She did remember being in the hospital, and the guy in a tie promising to help her when she'd be discharged. After that – nothing: the next thing she knew she was here, in a place she loved best, having a gin-and-tonic at the bar and saying hello to her regular crowd.

Thinking of the man in a hospital, she felt uneasy. It was not because of the strange revulsion that she felt towards him when she was first injured – that was gone as soon as he stopped pestering her and almost forgotten when they've stopped giving her so many drugs. No, she felt uneasy about the way she chucked him as she was leaving the hospital – she assumed she did, as she obviously left without him and was on her own now. He seemed a nice enough guy when he wasn't trying to kiss her – a bit mild, may be, but that was to be expected at his age – he must be at least fifty. He did seem eager to help, anyway. Well, what was done was done now – she was out, and he was left behind.

She shook her head, clearing it of dizziness and uneasiness, and splashed her face with cold water. It was a good thing she didn't need any powder or tone – reapplying them in such a light would have been problematic. Opening her clutch, she fished out her mascara and lipstick and freshened her make-up. Yep, she felt much better now, and the head was definitely clearer. She'd go and play some pool now, that's what she'd do – it will help her wear the rest of the drink off and restore her sense of well-being.

She was always extremely good at pool, and she enjoyed the game. It was so nice to move around the table, teasing the guys around with risky poses, to laugh, to be free. She was quite happy as she trashed her opponent, a meek fellow who kept sneezing all the time. And then _he_ – the tie-guy – came into the bar, and spoke to her, and looked at her very strangely: he was pale as sheet, as if he had seen a ghost. He called her by somebody else's name, just as people in the hospital did, and he seemed shocked and disappointed. This rubbed her the wrong way: what was wrong with her, why did she have to be somebody else – someone called 'Belle'? It was weird that, while it did not matter to her when other people made the mistake, when this guy spoke to her thus she felt instantly angry. He did make it look as if she was… worse than this 'Belle', a lesser-quality person. And anyway, who was he to judge? He might have been old enough to be her father, but he was _not_ her father, for crying out loud.

Well, she put him in his place – she brushed him away as briskly as she could (it was good luck that she did remember his name in time, otherwise she'd be at a disadvantage), and he retreated looking positively beaten. And the guys in the bar gave her very, very startled looks, and started to whisper. That was odd, so she asked them what made them uneasy. And the barman said: 'Well, Lacey, you've got some nerve, to talk to Mr. Gold like you did!' She asked why – the man looked harmless. The men exchanged glances, and started talking. Well, not talking really – hinting, mumbling, and stammering, telling her that Mr. Gold was all sorts of things he did not look. They said he owned the town – literally owned the ground it stood on. That everybody was in debt with him. That he was completely ruthless when dealing with his debtors – or with anyone who looked at him the wrong way, in fact. That was seriously baffling – she thought herself a good judge of character, and this fellow did not strike her as anything they talked about. Yet, they seemed very sure of their words, and positively scared of the man. Her fresh behavior with him awed them; his extremely mild reaction to it surprised them no end.

That intrigued her, and set her thinking. She was not sure her dear friends the bar-regulars could be trusted entirely – perhaps they were exaggerating; yet she felt annoyed with herself for not having seen deeper than the buttoned-up appearance of this Mr. Gold. She kept coming back to their brief encounters, questioning herself if there might have been more then met the eye in the man. Well, may be there was something – a set of the mouth, a certain coldness in the eyes, the distancing in the manner, that suggested that here was a man who was hiding something – some part of himself. If he was, she would have liked to find out – she was ever curious about people, and she had to admit that people that surrounded her usually weren't very interesting. All of them – all these guys in the bar – seemed hollow, one-dimensional. They were nice enough, but they were nobodies. This man, this Mr. Gold, might be _somebody_. And to think that she just sent him packing without a second glance!

She felt irritated with herself, and her mood dropped. She welcomed a drink that mysteriously appeared before her, and then welcomed another from the thuggish guy that had an eye on her for a while – a handsome enough fellow, if you liked that sort of brutal size, but not really her type. Still, he seemed ok, and there was no harm in letting him chat her up a bit. She was just considering letting him buy her another drink when Mr. Gold walked into the bar again.

She felt absurdly nervous, watching him out of the corner of her eye. He hesitated at the door, looking the place over. He was not alone; this time, he was accompanied with a tall, powerful guy with a nice, but rather stupid face – his bodyguard, perhaps? If this Mr. Gold was indeed the kind of kingpin in town, a sort of shadow authority of a slightly criminal nature he might have a need of the bodyguard, him being so slight and having a game leg. The big guy stayed behind, pretending to be busy with his beer. Mr. Gold came forward and spoke to her, and she suddenly found herself not knowing what to say. With dismay, she heard herself blabbing something about pop music – gosh, just how stupid was that, it was obvious this guy knew nothing about good music; it was just not his thing. She saw his puzzled face, felt like blushing, and hurriedly escaped to the jukebox, supposedly to illustrate her point in conversation, but in reality just to hide her face. She was making a fool of herself, for no reason at all, and she felt young and girlish, and unsettled.

She was bending over the jukebox playlist panel, not really seeing it, when she heard his voice behind her back. He was asking, in that curiously ceremonious way he had, whenever they could 'spend some time together'.

She wheeled around: 'You mean, like a date?'

He seemed hesitant. 'Yes. A date'.

She looked at him closely. She felt exited and interested – after all, if he was the man they said he was, then the most powerful guy in town was asking her for a date – in plain view of everybody – _after_ she already jilted him once! That was something. But she wanted to make sure he was talking to _her_.

'You do know that I am not this 'Belle' you are always talking about?'

'Yes, of course'.

He answered that one too quickly. She hesitated, watching him. His was a tired, lined, kind face. His eyes were sad. He looked nervous, and she was filled with doubts. There was no way this chap could be the dark power her friends described him to be.

'I've heard about you. People in town… They are afraid of you, Mr. Gold'.

He shook his head: 'Don't let that deter you. Give me a chance, please'.

She felt like snorting. Deter her? Why would it 'deter' her? What sort of word was that, anyway? It seemed that she'd have to buy a dictionary if she were going to date the man.

And, having said that to herself, she knew she _was_ going to date him.

She told him to be at Granny's the same night, and walked away, feeling the whole crowd at the bar watching her back in awed silence.

Then she went to the ladies' again, and washed her face again, and made it up again. Then she looked at her clothes, and found them inadequate, and catalogued her dresses mentally, and found all of them wanting. She went out, and bought herself a new dress, and new shoes. She did not feel like going home – she was too strained, strangely buzzing inside. She put the new dress on in the ladies' room, and then had another drink – just to steady her nerves.

She had thought of being elegantly late for her date, but did not manage it – she was too eager to get to Granny's to slow her walk down. He beat her to it, anyway – he was already there when she came. And, seeing his dapper, collected slight figure sitting there at the window table, with a carefully arranged unreadable expression on his face, she knew the date would go wrong. Her main reason for coming was her curiosity; and, by the look of him, Mr. Gold wasn't going to satisfy it. He kept avoiding her questions about his reputation. He was unaccountably nervous; he dropped the menu, he ordered without asking her what she wanted, and though she did not mind his choice, actually – Granny's burgers were good – she just had to make a stand and ask for something different. She saw that some things she did annoyed him, and took grim pleasure in doing exactly them. He pursed his lips at her order of wine – she filled her glass to the brim, and felt like draining it at once. All the time they were sitting there, she talking unthinkingly and feeling ridiculously overdressed, he mooning her with those dark eyes of his, searching in her face for something that wasn't there, she felt that both of them were in for a disappointment. He was obviously stubbornly trying to find 'Belle' in her; he wanted her to be somebody she wasn't, and that was bad enough, for it suggested that she wasn't good enough, and if it were so, why did he ask her out, anyway? Yes, that was bad enough, but there was something worse. She felt he was not open with her – _he_ was pretending to be somebody he wasn't; his assumed modesty about his position, his evasiveness, his studied pretentious remarks were maddening. The point when he said that she could have everything she wanted sounded actually filthy: he came across as a sugar-daddy promising well-financed future to a cheap whore.

There was one thing, which she valued in people above everything else: honesty. God knows she had enough bullshit in her life. And this man was not honest with her, and it felt… insulting. He intrigued her; she did want to see what would induce people to think him dangerous. She wanted to know him, and she obviously had no chance to.

By the time he turned over his stupid iced tea, staining her dress, she was thoroughly annoyed. She welcomed a chance to escape to the bathroom, for she knew that otherwise she'd say something rude. The wine didn't help, too: she felt reckless and her spirits were low, all at once. When she cleaned the stain, she hesitated whenever it was worth it to come back to the table. She did not want to eat that stupid chicken she ordered out of spite. She couldn't swallow a bite, anyway. She needed some space to think; she wanted to look into herself and check what pissed her off more, his inability (or unwillingness) to be honest with her, or the fact that he seemed to expect from her something she couldn't deliver. Anyway, both ways it was not good.

She needed a breath of fresh air, and went to the back entrance of the Diner. The night was chilly; she shivered in her short dress. She felt sad. For the first time in a very long time she took fancy to a man, and it was all in vain: they didn't seem to connect, at all. She glimpsed the big guy who tried to pick her up at the bar earlier: he must have been passing by, and saw her standing there all alone, and said 'Hi'. He was honest enough – it was easy to see what he wanted from her. 'What the hell', she thought tiredly, and stepped down into his greedy hands. At least this guy wasn't reserved, and he didn't look at her as if she stunk, and he took her for what she was, and didn't expect from her more than she could deliver. The fact that she didn't like him, and his kisses were too sloppy, and his palms sweaty, didn't matter too much. A girl can put up with a lot just for the chance to be accepted – to be valued as she is.

She wasn't thinking much as the guy was kissing her, and she wasn't feeling much. Perhaps she has drunk more than she thought. Or may be she was just terribly, terribly unhappy. It was funny: she never felt she was unhappy until this abortive date with Mr. Gold, but now she knew it for a fact. She was very unhappy. And lonely. And unloved.

She felt like crying, but it is very difficult to cry when you are being kissed on the mouth by the guy you don't really fancy. She closed her eyes, and let her mind drift. It was going to be over soon, anyway – men that are _that _enthusiastic at the start rarely ran long-distance.

It was over even sooner than she thought, for her admirer was thrown bodily away from her. He stuttered something; Mr. Gold yelled at him angrily. And, though the big guy's fear and Gold's extreme anger seemed to confirm partly what people were saying about him and what he so consistently denied, it was all completely ridiculous. He behaved as if she was a damsel in distress, and he was her noble protector. He seemed shocked she could have wanted to kiss somebody, and to be kissed by somebody. It appeared he didn't even realize that she wasn't happy on their 'date', and did not listen properly when she tried to explain why. It was perfectly clear that he was still looking at her, and wishing to see somebody else. And it hurt. She never felt so diminished, so cheated and so neglected in her life.

When he mentioned their alleged 'past' again, she couldn't stop herself from saying it out loud, angrily, almost shouting: 'This is still about Belle, isn't it? Look, Mr. Gold, I am sorry, she may have loved you – but I am _not her_!'

Surely he could understand that it was insulting for a girl to be treated in such a way – to be dismissed in such a way for somebody who existed only in his imagination?_ She_ was here. Wasn't she good enough, or interesting enough, or beautiful enough, or whatever else it was that he wanted from that other girl he took her to be?

She left him standing there in the backyard among the rubbish bins, muttering something. She ran back to Granny's bathroom, locked herself in, and cried terribly.

She did not know why it hurt so much that he didn't see her for what she was, and didn't appreciate her, and didn't want her to know him – the real him. It was absurd, she hardly knew the man; he was nothing to her. Yet it hurt awfully, and it took her a long time to calm down.

She heard him from behind the locked door; he said to Granny, quite curtly, that they will not be dining today, and asked for the bill. He obviously paid it and left; she heard the sound of his cane tapping the floor. She sniffled. Now that he was gone, she could go too.

She looked at the mirror at her flushed face, and grimaced. She seemed to spend a lot of time in bathrooms today. Well, it was a weird day – a strange day. She'd have to make herself a stiff drink at home, before she turned in. No more bars tonight. She was too tired.

She walked out of the bathroom, trying to avoid Granny's disapproving glare. She took her coat off the hook, and walked out of the Diner, and then stood hesitating, not knowing which way to turn. She wasn't sure which way Mr. Gold went, but instinctively felt like taking another route. She couldn't face him again tonight.

After a while, she decided to go by the car park. It was shorter, anyway.

As she was turning the corner, she heard strange sounds – systematic heavy thuds, dull, followed by muffled grunts. It sounded as if somebody was beating up a huge piece of meat, and it responded in a mute but pained way.

She walked into the car park to see detached, elegant and cool Mr. Gold violently beating with his cane the man who kissed her.

She stood, watching him, transfixed.

He was completely changed. He was electrified – fuelled with fury, demonic. He was himself, apparently, he did not pretend to be anything he wasn't, and she felt a surge of energy and power emanating from him. He seemed… alive, and real, and at the same time he seemed to be something _much more_ than he looked.

Now she could believe everything people said about him. Now she saw it in him – the authority, the ruthlessness, the power to get what he wanted at any given price. He looked as if he had a natural, indisputable _right_ to command the world around him – and, because of that, she knew she would never resent him ordering her around again, as she did earlier.

She liked this man so much better then the sugar-daddy he pretended to be before.

She stepped forward, and told him so. He gave her a startled, searching look: for a second his dark eyes seemed to turn completely black, empty and still as eyes of a snake. But then something in them changed – a kind of recognition dawned on him; and, for the first time, she knew he was looking at _her_, as she was, and that he liked what he saw.


	23. Chapter 23

23

They say that sometimes for people who sustain prolonged torture comes a moment when the pain, which was building up so as to become unbearable for human flesh to take anymore, turns into a twisted pleasure; the sufferer's brain, incapable of mastering the agony, inverts it, and the torture victim experiences extreme arousal and sexual tension. Agony turns into ecstasy; pain becomes literally orgasmic. It is a coping mechanism provided to our bodies by nature, but there is no coming back from this state, no normality for the survivor. Physical wounds could heal; the damage to the brain is permanent – it just snaps, loosing all connection with reality, all judgment of relative value and meaning of things.

He had read about this horrible phenomenon somewhere. He was living through it now. That moment there, on the car park, when he turned from his victim to face her and his darkened gaze has met her beautiful eyes, alight with excitement and wonder and awed admiration at his disgraceful behavior, was when he started his descent into hell; yet, when the raging flames licked his body, he felt the burns as caresses. That was when he understood the full scope of what he's done; the depth and the irreversible nature of his guilt. And that was when he first felt the liberating madness that comes with knowing that there is no redemption. She was lost forever – turned into a damaged creature that couldn't be saved, and he was lost with her. They were damned and doomed, together. And the temptation to go down with thunder and flames proved too strong to resist. They were beyond salvation now. They could enjoy their damnation at least.

He never fully felt his darkness, never let it flow unchecked; in all his actions there always was a measure of control, born out of survival instinct, perhaps. There was no reason to control it now for, having ruined _her_, he had no reason to survive. How ironic, how pitiful, and how cruel of him was to want her with him in his darkest hour. A strong man would have left her rather then drag her down with him. But he was weak; he always was a coward – he feared loneliness. He wanted her near, even if it destroyed her further. He wanted her, even if she was not, truly, herself. He was _that_ eager for love. He could not live without her, and he could not die without her. It was quite simple, really.

When he first saw her there in the bar, playing pool, laughing and drinking, he felt physically sick. His eyes lost focus for a second, and memories rushed back to him: he seemed to be looking at his wife, there in the tavern where she had met her pirate, and gambled with him, and laughed, and drunk. For the first time the resemblance struck him and he realized, with dismay, that they were alike, the women he loved. Dark hair, abundance of locks, bright eyes and bodies that advertised the enjoyment life brought them; they were full of life, the women he chose. Their bodies promised they'd teach him to live fully, too. But in Belle, there was always something else – something more. She did not only promise – she _did_ teach him to live differently. Other women needed something to light them up. In his wife's case, it was fantasy – a dream of a strong man, which she eventually realized with another. For Cora it was magic – magic borrowed from him, magic that eventually made her jealous and resentful of him. Belle needed no outside light. She _was_ the light. And now the light was gone.

All the time he frantically went around town, confronting the Queen, asking the Prince to help, some part of his mind was elsewhere – screaming in pain, cursing itself, drowning in guilt. However strongly he blamed Regina, she really just brought to life the horror he created. Everything was his fault. It was his curse that contained this ruined girl in its depths. He was the perpetrator of her fall. His imagination created her, his will robbed her of grace. How could it even happen if, as he perfected the curse, he believed her dead? Did his very love, which went on so persistently, holding her in his heart as a fixed image, made her part of the disastrous scheme? What darkness, what unimaginable darkness he had in him to plan _that_ for her – to turn her into this nervous, insecure, damaged girl, burdened with suppressed horrors she had to drown in wine, so unloved and so eager for love and affection that she needed cheap comraderie of drunks to cheer her up, dressed to invite trouble and was ready to flaunt herself on any passing man?

He needed to undo what he's done. He needed to bring her back. He needed to save her. He was ready to do anything for that. His will was once strong enough to oppose true love. Surely his will would be able to bring it back to life? Ah, forget the great magical events – they were always hard to predict. He needed to simply take her off the streets. He needed to protect her, as he promised he would. Who would have thought he'd have to protect her from herself?

He hoped it would be easy – she was a good girl, only she lost her way, completely. He hoped that gentleness and care would soothe her – would induce her to trust him. That would have been something – that would have been a good start. But she didn't want his gentleness; she was not ready to trust him; he felt her teenage rebellion at every twist and turn of the conversation. What torture it was to hear her say the words and phrases from the past. What torture it was to understand that for this version of her truth was just as essential as for the old one, and he was just as unable to meet this, her simplest and most important need – for him to be honest with her. He could never show Belle just how dark he was, for fear of losing her, and Belle was strong. How could he show his true self to this little thing, already so scarred and damaged?

What a shock it was to realize that his darkness was exactly what she wanted to see; what a horror. Not only did he bring her to life inside the curse, by longing for her. It appeared that his darkest side did it: tired of being checked and suppressed, it sneaked into his planning and created a dark soul-mate for itself. The source of light was turned into the deepest of shadows and, manifested in the body which always drove him insane with want it now lured him into the depths of darkness. And the lure was irresistible.

The girl he wanted more than anything else in the world and had despaired to reach was answering to his call, finally, even if in a very sick way. How could he resist? She liked him; she wanted him – at least part of him. It was something. It was better then nothing. He longed for her so – he missed her so; it was such a long time since he touched her, and his whole body was aching for her. And here she was, standing so maddeningly close, smiling, looking at him invitingly, and yes, her breath smelled of drink, and yes, her clothing was more fitting for a slut than for a princess, yet did not all that – the recklessness, the glinting eyes, the exposed legs – advertise the very joy of life he always found so powerfully attractive? He refused to see all these things in his darling girl of old; but what if they were always there, and he was unfair in denying that this side of her existed? He did not show himself to her fully, and he did not see her fully. Perhaps it was just and right to correct that. Perhaps it was a good thing to be bad for her.

He was so, so confused. And, hoping against hope, reasoning against reason, becoming more and more aware of her closeness, smelling her excitement, feeling her admiring gaze, he was slipping, slipping, slipping further into the shadows that beckoned. The man who was secretly glad that she stopped his hand as he was firing the magic bow, the man who gloried in her grateful hug, the man who basked in her light stepped aside. The man who always felt guilty and neglected, the man bitter at the unfairness of the world, the man tired of being ashamed of himself stepped forward, and demanded what was due to him. Here was a girl that was ready to accept that other man. She welcomed him. He wanted to have her.

As his victim stopped moaning, having lost consciousness, he lowered his cane and turned to her, breathing heavily. It was not from the exertion; he was aroused. He never let his dark side run so freely with her around; it was incredible how physically exiting violence was if she watched him indulge in it. She looked at him intently. Her legs were drawn together; her hands were pressed to her hips, her breasts reached forward, as if inviting his touch. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes dreamy; she was biting her lip. She wanted him – there was no mistaking this look, he had seen it before, God, he knew her so well!..

He took a step towards her, and she instinctively stepped back, pressing herself against the wall. She looked so defenseless and open as she stood there, watching him, asking to be had. There was always something shy and reserved about his Belle when it came to bed; she never led, she just followed. There was nothing shy and reserved about her now, and he could not ignore the pull.

He stood in front of her, his hand reaching her neck, clasping it; he felt her shiver, and knew it to be from excitement. His face was very close to hers: 'Is this what you wanted to see?'

'Yes'. Her voice was but a whisper, her eyes were half-closed as she lifted her face towards him, asking for a kiss.

He run his hand down the length of her shoulder, and cupped her breast, feeling the hardening of her nipple even through her coat. 'Is this what you wanted to feel?'

'Yes'. Her voice caught, turning the word into a moan.

Still holding her breast, he let go of his cane, hearing it fall onto the ground with a dull thud, and put his free hand on her thigh, brushing his fingers upwards, reaching the hem of her stocking, feeling the smoothness of her warm skin, ignoring her surprised gasp, pushing her dress up. Her eyes closed, her breathing was shallow. She had thrown her head back against the brick wall.

His hand rested on her buttock – naked. There was no underwear, and his heart skipped a beat. 'If he', he jerked his head towards the prostate body on the ground as he spoke evenly, 'if he undressed you, he is going to die now'.

She opened her eyes, and looked into his. 'Let him live, for now. He did nothing'.

Desire ran through him like electric current, echoing painfully in every inch of his body. 'You came like that?' He pressed his lips to her exposed throat.

'Yes', she whispered into his hair. 'Yes, I came like that'.

His mind went blank – he could not stop now even if he wanted to; there was simply nothing of him left besides his need to have her, at once. He ripped her coat open; he pushed her dress up, and glanced at her. His breath caught. He let go of her for a second to unbutton his trousers; she stood before him, panting, skin of her thighs milky-white, hair between them dark. He put his hand there. She was wet. He growled, and turned her around, so that he was standing against the wall and she was facing him. Damn his bad leg, he needed to support himself against something. He pulled her up then, and rushed into her blindly; she clutched his shoulders, and her legs crossed behind his back; she didn't mind that her knees were grazing against the bricks. Their lips met, finally, and the sour taste of drink in her mouth was intoxicating. He bit her lip, and tasted the blood, and licked the wound, and sucked her tongue.

She cried out as she came. He hissed through gritted teeth.

They remained still for several minutes, entwined, breathing into each other's necks, his semen slowly leaking from her and smearing her legs.

Never in his life has he felt anything as intense as that. He was blinded by desire, stunned by the force of his release. The beast in him was free, and it roared.

He felt like an animal. God, he _was_ an animal. He just had her on the street, against the wall, as a common whore. How could he? Where did the man who wanted to protect her go? Was using her like that the right way to win her trust? How could he debase her so?..

And how could he want her, again – how could he still be ready to have her, there inside her, if he really felt so guilty about it?

And she seemed to be _happy_. She uttered a gentle giggle, and raised her head to kiss him. He kissed her in return, and slowly put her on the ground.

Her eyes were smiling. 'Well, Mr. Gold, will you buy me a drink? I think I need one'.

She looked so much like herself as she smiled at him that it tore his heart. She looked so much like herself that it was impossible to feel regret for what he'd done. Anything, he'd do anything as long as it made her happy. Anything, as long as she felt good around him. Anything to keep her with him.

'And do not lie to yourself, you beast. You are happy to be free around her', said a voice inside him.

To her, he chuckled: 'Yes, my darling girl. Of course I will buy you a drink. Anything you want, you shall have it, didn't I say so?'

She snorted, and pulled her dress down, fastening her coat with a belt now that buttons were mostly gone. He buttoned up, too, and picked his cane. His hand around her waist, they walked towards 'The Rabbit Hole', and darkness followed at their heels, but he chose to ignore it.

Sitting with her in the bar, watching her lit up face he could not make himself think of the price he was going to pay for what came to pass today. His life was full of risky deals lately; it was obvious this one was going to cost him, too. But he could not think about it now. Not when she was so close, and so happy. He had spent years thinking her dead. She was alive now, and with him. Shouldn't he be grateful for that? He thought he'd die without seeing her again, just two days ago, and yet here he was, holding her. Shouldn't he be grateful for _that_?

He'd try and close his eyes at everything that jarred. He will not think of the laughter too harsh, or a phrase too coarse, or of a gaze dimmed with drink. She is still somewhere there, inside. She is hurting, but he would nurse her to health. He would bring her light back.

The voice inside his head, his own voice, whining and teasing, the one he had when he was mad and bad in the past, asked him, derisively: 'And how are you going to do that, Dark One?' He told it to shut up.

He closed his eyes, and drew her to him, and kissed her fully and deeply on the lips, finding her tongue, making her moan softly – right there, in the middle of the bar, in plain sight of everyone who hadn't drunk themselves into stupor yet. He suddenly felt wonderfully free and reckless. His power was back, his son was back, and now she was back, too. He could let himself go – he could let himself live.

He would not think of the price.

Her drunken breath was hot on his cheek, and the darkness clouding around them felt red-hot, too. 'You know, Mr. Gold, I think I have fallen in love with you', she said, her voice slightly slurring.

He looked down into her eyes – still magical, still hers, not empty anymore. 'Come on, my darling B… beautiful girl. I will take you home'.

She smiled, and leaned on his shoulder.

He suddenly felt like having a large and stiff drink, too. But he was drunk enough by having her near.

His mind slipped, turning his guilt and pain into ecstasy, sometime during the events of that night. He did not notice it. He could not – he was too lost in the magic of the moment, not caring that this magic was dark.


	24. Chapter 24

24

She was terribly in love. Yes, terribly – not 'madly', or 'very much', or 'passionately'; these words that people normally used speaking of love were not right to describe what was happening to her. They were not strong enough, or they were too pompous or too… cold. They would not do. Her love was so sudden, so deep, so intense, so frightening, so inescapably overwhelming, so life-changing, so absolute, so natural, so raw, and somehow, though her lover kept her by his side day and night, her love felt hopeless. 'Terribly' described it all.

She was so very surprised to fall in love at all (and she did _fall_ into it, literally – one second she was her normal self, the next she was gone, totally submerged in Him). She somehow always thought she was not the falling-in-love type; she did not remember ever dreaming of a perfect boyfriend, for example, even when she was little. She could never say who her 'type' was, whenever she preferred tall guys or blonde ones or whatever – she just never thought of it. She wasn't really noticing men, most of the time, and never caught herself building an image of her future husband or something. And it was for the best, perhaps, for the man she did fall in love with wouldn't have fitted into any teenage dream. Even if she did dream of falling in love, she would have never imagined a lover like hers.

It was lucky that she didn't have a mother or any friends – it would have been so difficult to explain him to them. He was so unlike anything that might appeal to a girl her age. He was old. He was not handsome – she knew he was not. _She_ found his thin irregular face mesmerizing, she could spend hours tracing lines around his eyes and mouth, or stroking his graying hair, she would kiss his beautiful hands, dry and papery as hands of old people sometimes are, she could stare into his dark, dark eyes and lose herself in them, but she understood no one else would ever call him handsome. He was not strong or powerfully built – girls were supposed to like that; no, he was very slight, brittle, almost, yet she was amazed at the strength and stamina contained in his light body: if ever people talked about appearances being deceptive, that was his case. He was distant and aloof, he dressed like a prig; she'd never have thought she'd go out with a man in a three-piece suit and a tie and silk socks. None of the people she knew would ever imagine her with such a prim chap. But then, they didn't know what hurricane of emotions and passions he hid under that suit – how much energy he had, how strongly he felt and how directly he loved. Atomic bomb does not look very impressive on the outside, but look at what it can do; he was the same. Sometimes she thought of his suits as of a sort of protection he put between himself and the world – not to keep the world at bay, mind: to protect the world from _him_.

They didn't have much in common: there weren't many things about which they could talk – she knew she was too simple for him and, though he was very patient with her, most of the time she didn't understand half of the words he was using. He was a difficult man, his temper was snappy, some of his remarks stung her and hurt her; yet he always took hold of himself, almost at once, and would make it up for her: he'd give her something, or kiss her, or take her to bed – or to any surface available, if truth be told. He was incredibly possessive, which she found very exiting, and that was strange, for she always fancied herself to be a free spirit. In theory, she would have opposed any attempt to boss her or limit her freedom, but when he was ordering her around, she happily obliged. 'Wait here, Lacey', 'Stay in the shop, Lacey', 'Go into the other room, darling…' Who would have thought she'd be happy to be dragged around by his side, as if on a leash, like a submissive girlfriend of some mafia-boss? Yet he seemed to have some secret power about him – he had a right to boss her; he was _supposed_ to boss her. May be she resisted all previous attempts to constrain her because she felt that there was a man who had a right to do it; she refused to be owned by others, because her real master was around, somewhere. Now she has met him, and her life took on a new meaning.

Yes, that was what terrified her the most: he _meant_ so much to her. She felt that, before she met him, she sort of wandered in the dark, without any sense of direction, not really knowing herself. But then he appeared, and everything changed. Life had meaning. _She_ had meaning. And it was frightening. She felt so anxious about him, about herself. What if she lost him? What if he died? What if he would leave her, what if his sudden fancy would change, and he would drop her just as easily as he picked her up? What would become of her? She felt alive, she felt real only as long as he was near. It was awful to be so dependent on him. It was awful and humiliating to be so _needy_ – she wanted to see him, all the time, she longed for his touch; she wanted to hear his voice – that deep, sad voice he had; she wanted to always watch his face, his ever-changing, mobile face, with brows lifted, eyes darkening, lips giving a quirky grin. She knew it was a bad thing to cling to him so; men tired of clingy women. Yet she couldn't stop herself. She constantly needed to be reassured that she had him and that they were together. And it drove her crazy to realize that every time she asked for more and more devotion from him, she was ruining things – she was probably bringing the moment when he tired of her closer.

She didn't know where this anxiety came from; he was actually very kind to her. Cold and ruthless to the outside world, he was infinitely gentle with her; even the roughest sex was caring. He was always protecting her from some danger that only he could see; he was shielding her from the world, holding her in his pocket or in the palm of his hand like some very precious, very fragile thing. He seemed to be afraid she could break, suddenly. He did things to please her. He let her do things she wanted – the time when he was pursing his lips at her drinking was gone; he was always ready to refill her glass if she wanted it. And she did think sometimes that perhaps she should go easier on that – after all she did remember that he disliked it. But she was so anxious she needed to calm her nerves. Ah, it was awful – to be with the man who meant the world to you, and still be so afraid to lose him as to do the very thing that actually might drive him away!

It also felt somehow unjust that he thought her so weak and brittle. She thought that was probably a mistake on his part. She was stronger than she looked, she did not need to be pampered all the time. She, too, wanted to take care of him – she felt she had it in her, and, what was more important, she felt that he needed it. There was some part of him that remained closed to her – something that he didn't show her so as not to upset her. Something painful. He was hurting, inside, even in their happiest moments together, and she wanted to help him, but he didn't give her even a chance. And it was bad, because deep inside her she had a curious feeling that if he opened to her that would help her more than his protectiveness and his tolerance. If he trusted her, something new might waken in her; she'd become stronger, for him. Sometimes she wondered about this other girl he apparently knew and lost, the girl she reminded him of, the girl that first made him notice her. It pained her to think about it, but she did, for she realized that it might explain something about his attitude to her. She wondered what was different about them; she wondered what she lacked, and the other one possessed, and the other way round. She wondered what happened to her – it must have been something awful to make him act so carefully around her, as if a tragedy from the past could cast a shadow upon their present. Sometimes she wondered, wildly, if he was right after all, and this other girl was indeed hidden there inside her, somehow. She wondered if she could ever find her in herself, and wondered if she wanted to. Perhaps she was finding her – seeing glimpses of her. Perhaps that was what made her feel there was a possibility of change in her, and the only thing she needed for it to happen was for him to really, really love her.

She felt it even now, sometimes, especially when he held her in his arms – it is impossible to be withdrawn during love-making, and he did open to her as he had her; she felt connected to him, she felt she knew him then. Perhaps he felt it, too – perhaps that was why he was so insatiable. And he was – they hardly slept at night, and even during the day, when he took her with him to his shop, he would lock the front door and take her into the backroom, and time would suspend. He'd sit her on his desk, and draw her legs apart, and take off her shoes and stockings, and pull her dress from her shoulders, and down beneath her breasts, so that she would sit there, naked above and below, breathing heavily, and he'd just stand there fully clothed, in his bloody tie, and _look_ at her, for several minutes, taking her in, watching her nipples harden, smelling her arousal, look at her with his dark eyes becoming flat, and then, when she'd feel like burning, he'd slowly put his fingers between her legs and start pushing them in and out, in and out, and she'd throw her head back, and moan, and then, suddenly, he'd grab her legs and pull her forward, so she'd fall on her back and be spread on the desk before him, and he'd step closer, and press her opened wetness to his groin, rubbing her against the fabric of his damned suit, letting her feel how hard he is, and then she'd clutch the side of the desk with her hands, and moan again, and then he'd open his pants, finally, thank God, and push into her, and she'd come, at once, and he'd start moving in her, and she'd feel it all again, the tension, the build up, and then she'd scream, and he'd lick her nipples as he comes, and groan, and stay on top of her, trembling, his face buried between her breasts.

It was humiliating to be so much in his power. Yet she didn't mind. She loved it. She loved _him_, and whatever he did, was right. And if he wanted to prey on her body and pray to it as if she were a pagan goddess, that was all right. May be if he did as he pleased often enough, if he had things completely his way often enough, he'd feel less pain, and she would become more then a body to torment and please for him.

That was what she wanted more than anything else in the world – to be complete and real for him. That, and to never, never lose him. And there came a moment when these things suddenly became a possibility. She has learned the strangest, the most unbelievable thing about him; she has learned that he possessed magic. Any other girl would have run away screaming: looking at the man you sleep with and seeing him pull things out of thin air can only mean one thing – that you are mad. Magic doesn't exist; any sane person knows that. But her submersion in him was so absolute that, seeing the unbelievable things he did, she felt relieved. It explained everything: his power, his secrets, his remoteness from the world, his loneliness; for of course people shunned him, for being different, even as they used his powers. And this new knowledge changed her role in his life. She was not just a silly gullible girl obsessed by a father-figure lover. She loved a _wizard_. He had chosen her to be with him; he thought her worthy. She was the woman who could share his fate, stay by his side when everyone else abandoned him. He _wanted_ her to. That separated her from the rest of the world and bound them together.

And the powers he had meant that she would never have to lose him. They could be together forever, and forever is a very long time; time enough to love and know each other, time enough to heal and bloom. Time enough for everything.


	25. Chapter 25

25

Three times during his lifetime he thought he was losing his mind. The first one was when he killed his predecessor with the cursed dagger, and felt the onslaught of magic that came to change his body and reshape his mind, redefining the limits of possibilities, adjusting the sense of right and wrong, revaluing his place in the universe. The second one was when he went through the final stages of building his curse, while believing Belle dead; the agony he was living through was so fierce that it obliterated parts of his consciousness, rendering him unable to tell if he was alive or dead himself. The third time was when he woke up in the enchanted town he created and, while oblivious of his real identity and circumstances of his life, still experienced strange visions of the world he made himself forget, and they were so real that he had no way of telling whenever these things indeed happened or existed only in his imagination. Each of the occasions was painful in its' own way. Each one was a fight: to know himself, to control himself, to survive. Each time his mind was turned into a mess of confusing emotions and images, and he plunged in and out of madness, clutching at things he knew to be real and important and valuable: his son, his love, his dignity. Each time was hard, but each time he felt the battle wasn't lost; each time he felt he had it in him to eventually overcome the darkness. Each time he realized he still had a mind to lose, and that assured his victory.

Now came the fourth time, and it was different. The pain was here again, and the confusion became total, but this time there was no fight. There was nothing real or important or valuable any more – nothing to hold on to. His love was deformed, his dignity lost, yet he had no mind to acknowledge that. He has given in; the darkness has won, and he surrendered.

Each time in the past he _thought_ he was going mad. Now he knew it. The difference is subtle, but tangible. While still fighting, the brain defines the fine line between what it imagines and what it knows to be true; delusions might be strong, but they are recognized as such. When the battle is lost, delusions become reality – they shape the world to their liking, infusing it with their twisted logic. There are no two realities for a madman: the one he lives in is the only one that exists, and any doubt in it makes him furious.

He was not mad, yet: he knew the real world existed. He would emerge from the dark, self-indulgent, pain-ridden, and lustful abandonment in which he wallowed, sometimes, and glimpse it – the actual truth, the enormous horror of his thoughts and actions. Yet those glimpses did not make him stop, or even want to stop. He was irritated by intrusions; he wanted them to be over as soon as possible. He wanted back into the red mist where things were the way he shaped them, where guilt was part of the gain, and pain was part of the pleasure. He wanted the moments of truth to seize happening: they were painful and pointless. He did not fight approaching madness; he descended into it almost thankfully.

He always wanted to know how it felt – to live for himself only, to have no obligations, no duties, no moral responsibilities to anybody. He never had a chance; first, he was too weak, then he was a father, later he became a slave to his need to find redemption. He had to fight for his life, care for his child, and serve the good people of the world he despised so that he can make this world bend to his will. Now he was immortal, his son was a grown-up man, and he needed nothing from people around him, so had no reason to even talk to them, let alone help them. He owed them nothing, and asked for nothing but to be left alone with the woman who drove him mad.

He has spent a lifetime searching for her, and another lifetime longing for her. He died over her death, and woke up with her return. He lived through despair of ruining her, and he came to accept what he was given. He realized what his mistake was, back there in the past – all his life, really. He always believed he would find a woman who will save him, change him for the better, fill his life with light. But why should he? What _was_ he to expect anything so wonderful and glorious? He was nothing, and he deserved no miracles. But still he has got himself a miracle of sorts. Why, he has got everything he ever wished for. A pitiful and ugly man, he has got himself a voluptuous beauty. A bore and a prig, he has got a woman with a ready laugh and a heart for adventure. An evil and selfish man, he has got a woman who never questioned his judgment or his rights. A loner, he has got himself a constant companion. A man eager for affection, he has got himself a woman who trembled at his slightest touch – at his look, even. A man never appreciated, he has got himself a woman who accepted him unconditionally. And she _loved_ him. He knew it – he felt it; something bloomed in this poor lost girl when he looked at her, a glow illuminated her features, her eyes cleared and shone at him. Her love wrapped around him like a physical thing; its waves lapped at him, touching him, trying to get in – not to change him, as in the past, but to warm him.

In her own damaged and clumsy way she was trying to build their bond. It was he who sabotaged her efforts. Not out of self-defense, as in the past. God knows he did not care for survival now, after everything he's done. God knows he was not afraid to die. He would have given anything to bring her back; he would have sacrificed anything, his power and his life included, for a chance to love her. He simply did not have it in him to love her as he loved _Her_.

Oh he _did_ love her – he loved her with a bleeding heart, hurting at her fragility, amazed at her stubborn vitality, charmed by her directness, touched by her devotion, driven to distraction by her generous body and easy virtue. She was probably better suited for him, now, than she ever was when she was herself. His darkness did not weight upon her heart, did not oppress or depress her; she did not torture him with reproof, silent or outspoken, as she used to. But she also did not drive him to become better, and _that_ – Belle's ability to give him strength to suffer for his own goodness – was what she lacked and what he missed. He was a man divided within himself, and it would not do to love just one part of him. Belle understood it, even though he cursed her love away: he did wonder sometimes if that curse he put on himself when she first kissed him survived after her return. It might have been broken; it might have disappeared silently, unnoticed, in the turmoil of feelings they both went through then. He certainly did not feel himself unreachable to love as he watched her smile at him across the city border – God, it was the last time _they_ have seen each other, as themselves... He had no way to know the fate of this curse now, for _this_ girl did not challenge it. She loved what he showed her, but he has learned a long time ago that his perception of himself was faulty: the real _he_ was not the man he cursed, and Belle knew it, and that made her able to connect with him even through time and space. This girl's love for him, and his for her did not connect. They reached towards each other blindly, and the treads leading from heart to heart did not join but hang in the air limply.

It might have been easier if the women he loved did not share the same body. If she looked differently, he would have been able to see her true beauty – his eyes wouldn't have been blinded by the perfection she was before. Sometimes, as she slept, he'd lay by her side, and watch her reposed face. She was herself when she slept, and it broke his heart. He longed to touch her then, to wake her up with a kiss, but he knew that the instant she'd open her eyes his Belle would be gone. There was no true love's kiss for them; his kiss would not wake his sleeping beauty, but plunge her deeper into the magic slumber. So he would just look at her, as through a dark glass, and he would weep. And then she'd wake up, and turn her eager face to him, asking for a kiss, and the real nightmare would start, for the body he always found entrancing would call to him, spreading out before him, waking his darkest, deepest needs, tempting him to forget that the soul in it was different now.

This body was irresistible to him, always, but doubly so now that the girl who owned it was completely defenseless before him. He had power over her, and power corrupts. He who once castigated himself for thinking shameful thoughts of the woman he loved could make them as real as he pleased now, and there is no man born yet who could resist such a temptation. He could have had her any way he wanted, and he did. There was no room in the house or in the shop where he hasn't had her; as they were coming home from the bar on the first night he had her in his car, on top of him. The heavy scent of sex permeated the air they breathed; every place brought on a memory – of how he watched her go up the stairs, and stopped her, and had her pressed against the banisters, without facing her once; of how she fingered his spinning wheel, curious about it, and at the sound of her question ('Why do you spin so much?') he'd lost his mind and took her on the floor; of how he'd touch her between thighs as she sat at the kitchen table in her nightdress, and she'd look at him darkly, and reach for him under the table, and they'd sit there, eyes locked and fingers moving, until a shudder would come over them; of how she'd lay naked on his bed, and he'd touch her nipples with the golden top of his cane, and she'd tremble with the cold and want, and how her eyes would close, and lips part, and he'd move the cane down, and touch her where she wanted, and she'd arch her back towards him. And every time he touched her, every time he'd moan and she'd ripple and tighten around him, he'd think: 'What if _she_ would have liked that, too?' And his memories and his shame and his grief would explode in him and multiply his lust, and there would be no stopping him. They say that sometimes when a man comes and comes, endlessly, there is no semen left in him and he starts coming with blood. He came and came, and he wondered if that would happen to him eventually. He wondered if he would bleed out for her, physically, as his heart bled for her.

There was no contradiction between his shame and his desire, his pain and his pleasure, his guilt and his abandonment; like snakes carved on ancient stones they bit each other's tails, entwined – they fed on each other. _That_ was the world in which he wanted to stay. That was the bloody and fleshy and lustful and terrible world, which he accepted as his own. This relentless deadly longing was his reality, the one he earned, the one he deserved, the one he hated and loved. He was a beast in love with his prey, and he devoured her even though he knew her to be poisoned. The thing he loved was killing him, and he was killing her, and the horror of it was sublime, and the joy of it final.

One would have thought that fate wouldn't make him pay for such a terrible happiness. But it did, and the moment he learned the price, it was over. Everything was over. As he stood there in the cold sun listening to the good ones announce his son's death and shamelessly asking his help in the same breath – was there nothing sacred for them? – he felt his mind clearing, and his world coming into focus. There was a glorious finality to this world – his failure was absolute. He did everything he could and destroyed everything he could for the sake of this one goal – finding his boy. And he lost him again. He was not cursed; he was _damned_. That was no fault of any curse, nor magic of any dagger. It was something in _him_ that did it. Everything he ever touched was soiled. These people. This town.

She.

They were worried, the good ones, they were afraid to die – they wanted him to save them. Didn't they realize? He was over, and everything was over with him. They were born because he made it possible, for goodness sake. It was not unfeeling of him to let them be destroyed now. It was an act of mercy. The world he created didn't have a right to exist.

Thus felt the Dark One as he looked into the cosmic vastness of magic he possessed but couldn't, ultimately, control. But an old man, a father who lost his only child, felt differently. He felt the weight of his humanity as he never felt it in his life. His body was centuries old, and now he suddenly felt his age. It took all his will, magical and human, not to collapse there, in front of the good ones. It took all his will to walk a relatively straight line as he felt their eyes on his back. As soon as he was out of their sight, he stopped, and leaned against the wall. The sea before him glinted in the sun. The air was fresh. He stood there for several minutes, watching the day blindly, not thinking, not even feeling the pain. There was nothing – his mind was empty. He was empty. Finished.

He closed his eyes, and saw a face – a face of a girl in a blue dress, smiling at him, her eyes full of wonder and love. _'Tell me about your son', she asked. 'I have lost him. There is nothing more to tell, really', he said._ How right he was. There really was nothing more to tell then. There was nothing more to tell now.

He should have let her change him, back then. He should have let her do it, and none of this would have happened. The boy would have been alive, even though far, far away from him. Far away from him is the best place for anyone he cares about. He should have let her change him, and they would have been happy. She would have been happy. She would have had a good life. And now she was gone, and she was going to die with him – all because of him, all because he did not trust her.

The thought of her made him move, again. He must see her. He must tell her… Yet what would he tell her? She wouldn't understand. She can't, because he has turned her into a soulless plaything, and used her, and dared to call it love. The way she is now, she'd try to comfort him in the way she knows best. She'd kiss him, and he would not be able to stand that.

He would never touch her again. Not after what he's done to her and with her.

He walked into his shop, and met her worried gaze; magic was happening, the earth trembled with it, and she was always aware of magic in the past, and was sensitive to it even now – perhaps that's why she accepted the truth about his powers so easily and so eagerly. He avoided her questions, and avoided her touch, and she gave him a startled, worried, hurt look. _Her_ look – that's how _she_ used to look at him, when he was snappish. He took her into his arms then; he embraced her and let her head rest on his shoulder. She has been through so much pain already; he wouldn't let her die rejected. What did his shame matter in the face of her discomfort?

When the dwarfs came to rummage the shop and one of them gave him the potion that might restore her memory, he had difficulty stifling hysterical laughter. Oh the final, the brilliant irony of that – he, the Dark One, was offered a cure for his true love, a cure distilled by the Fairies whom he hated by his very nature – by the very Fairy who took away his son! If ever he wanted a final proof of his failure that was it.

He had no intention to use the potion – none at all. He would not stoop so low. He always was a proud man… He was a proud man, and where did it take him?

He was talking to her of empty things, he was giving her a drink – heavens knew she had a right to one, now. She felt his distress, and she was trying so hard to please him, and he felt her love, and was touched by her feeble attempts to look brave, and he _pitied_ her so. And suddenly, for a moment, she looked so much like herself again that he couldn't stand it anymore. It was her, it was his Belle, with her magical eyes and her brave heart and her ability to accept and forgive and believe the best; how could he not see it in her before? Everything this girl did and felt towards him was the same that She felt and did. He once told her who she is, when she did not know it. How could he let his stupid magician's pride stand in the way of her knowing herself before she died? His magic ruined him. Now was the time to be human, and humble.

He restored the cup she broke, and wished his heart could be mended just as easily. He gave her the potion, and stood holding his breath, watching her change. And as she looked into his eyes, and knew him, it all came back. Their love flared in the room – the severed parts of the bond connected with an almost visible spark. And with it, the terrifying emptiness was gone – he was filled with pain, acute and physical, of everything that happened to him, today and ever. His unhappy childhood, his failed marriage, his failed fatherhood, his failed magic – his mutilated love. He failed in everything – he couldn't even die with dignity. But then he knew already that he couldn't die without her. He learned it here, in this very room, and he wept then as he wept now, for he felt her love then as he felt it now.

She came into his arms, she held him strongly; she was whispering something sweet. He pressed her to his heart and he let his tears flow into her hair. It did not matter what they said, it did not matter how long they could stay together; he did not mind the pain. The only thing that mattered now was that he held her in his embrace, and felt recalled to life.


	26. Chapter 26

26

'_You are a beautiful woman who loved an ugly man – really, really loved me. You find goodness in others, and when it is not there, you create it… So when you look in the mirror, and don't know who you are – that's who you are!..'_ His voice, breathless and strained over the phone line, voice of a dying man saying the last goodbye, leaving her all his immense love as a legacy to give her strength to survive alone in the world without him – that was what first came to her as she drunk the potion from her chipped cup, destroyed by her in despair and restored now by his magic. His voice, his words sounded in her mind while everything else was still blurred and distorted; and with them came the clarity, the knowledge of her true self. The woman who loves him; the woman he needs – that's who she is, whatever her name is. Funny, he never told her he loved her, not in the actual words, but it did not matter now: his love sounded in his dying voice, and it was blinding. She knew he'd give her anything, forgive her anything, share with her everything. She knew herself, and she knew him.

As she lifts up her eyes, she has a most curious series of visions; unlike the last time she was waking up in the forest by the wishing well, when the Queen's curse has lifted and she saw various things and scenes from her past, the only image that assaults her now is his face. His beloved face: his eyes, dark and flat and warm and caring, his thin carved nose, nostrils flaring; his lips, ever ready to twist in a grin or to droop in a resigned line; a face grotesque and beautiful, old and ageless, beastly and human. She sees his face as she first saw him, green and golden, with reptilian eyes holding her gaze; his face closed and unreadable as he watched her go around his castle; his face open and vulnerable as she hugged him in the woods; his face transformed with wonder as she leaned to kiss him; his face contorted with fury as he rejected her; his face cold and dead as he was sending her away; his face pale and shattered as he saw her enter his shop; his face crumpled with tenderness as he promised to protect her; his face sad and withdrawn as he tried to let her go; his face alight with longing and stained with tears as he possessed her; his face questioning her presence in his life; his face pained as he told her the truth about himself; his face open to hope as she looked at him across the border; his face stricken with pain as she rejected him in the hospital; his face hopeful as she promised to let him help her, and touched his hand; his face devastated as he saw her under another curse; his face dark with shame and pain and desire as he loved her even when she was not herself. These faces, which she saw so clearly now, told the story of their love, love that always found a way to bind them, even in the weirdest circumstances. This love obliterated all doubts; it knew no shame.

This love gives her strength to face him, and when she does, she feels a pang of great fear. He has changed terribly. He looks a thousand years old – his eyes are eternal in their darkness, even the tears cannot soften them. She remembers how the look of complete desolation would come over him sometimes in the past, and how he would search for something in himself, and this something, unknown to her then, would help him pick himself up. This something is gone now. His strength is gone. And, as she now knows what had driven him trough all these years, she guesses the reason, and shudders for him.

'You have lost your son', she says, and it is not a question.

He doesn't even nod – a flicker of his eyelids tells her that she is right.

There are no words she can say that would mean anything now, or change anything, or help in any way. But no words are needed; she just holds him, as tightly as she can, wishing her warmth to penetrate the ice of despair that encrusts his body, her fingers stroking the hair on the back of his head, as if he were a child; she just listens to his sobbing voice telling of failure, and whispers helplessly that she is sorry, thought she doesn't even know what she is sorry for. For his loss? For not being there for him when he needed her? He says he is sorry for waking her up to die, and she doesn't quite understand him. What does it matter to her if she dies or not, as long as she is with him? How could he die without her, and how could he doubt that she'd want to be with him when she died? She even feels relieved. There is no need to do anything now, to fight or to prove anything. There is finality to what's happening, a sublime justice, and wonderful certainty. The only thing she has to do, as the earth shudders with waves of dark destructive magic, is to hold him to her heart and let him know that she is with him – now and forever.

Forever doesn't need to be a long time: it can be lived in a second, if this second is filled with meaning and purpose and love. Forever is when their lips touch their tears. Forever is when they are together. That is how she feels as they embrace, that is how she feels as they sit on the floor, holding hands, his fingers entwined with hers, giving them a gentle squeeze from time to time. She feels suspended in time; his touch is the only thing real to her, even though this touch is strangely… fleshless. His soul, deadly tired and slipping towards final peace, is touching her, not his body; but it is not a bad thing. Their bodies had their share of touching in the last few days. Now is the time for their souls to touch each other.

And then the shuttering of the world stops, all of a sudden. She looks up at him, searchingly. His face is drawn and grey. He closes his eyes in a very tired way and says softly: 'They have stopped the curse. You are safe now. You are not going to die'.

She nods, silently noting his choice of words. '_You_ are not going to die', he says. Not 'we'. She needs to pick this subject up, but she knows he is not ready, so she just asks with a glimmer of her usual curiosity: 'How do you know?'

He shows her a shadow of his twisted smile and taps his temple: 'I just know'. And then he gives a rugged breath, as if stifling a sob, and shuts his closed eyes even tighter, as if trying to lock tears inside his eyelids. He must be thinking of his magic, she guesses: magic lets him know what happens in the world, his magic that is so great and powerful, yet so helpless in the face of his loss. His magic failed him when he needed it most; it must feel like such a burden now, such a sneer of fate. He probably hates it now. And this is wrong: his magic is part of him, and he should not hate any part of himself; not when she loves him so. She needs to do something to make him feel better; to make him feel anything else but pain. She cannot stand the sight of him, sitting on the floor like that, with eyes closed, defeated.

She needs to at least distract him with something, so she says: 'Can't we go out now? I want to see what happened to the town. And I want a breath of fresh air…' She indicates the table with unfinished drinks vaguely, and knows her words to be true: the other girl she has been just moments ago was not entirely sober when things started happening.

'Of course'. He nods, and stands up heavily, leaning on his cane with one hand and on the counter with the other.

It _pains_ her so to see him so… frail.

'I think I will need to… change', she gives herself a look over.

He nods, again. 'Your things are in the closet in the backroom. I kept them in case…' He pauses, painfully. 'Well, in case you came back'.

She goes to the closet he indicated, and opens it. The pretty dresses that he gave her when she first came back – they are all here, and somehow the picture of them hanging there in such forlorn order makes her think of closets of dead people, which their survived relatives can't clean for months, unable to make themselves let go of memories. Her father kept her mother's dresses for years – she used to be so scared of that closet when she was a little girl; she thought it was filled with ghosts. She picks one of her old dresses, and hastily puts it on, trying not to think of how her vulgar nail varnish clashes with the elegant fabric.

God, what horror he must have lived through while she did not remember herself. How lost and lonely he must have felt. How horrible her change must have been for him; and yet how bravely he faced it, and how valiantly he did everything he could so that they could be together still. He accepted her even though she pained him. He changed for her, just as he always changed for her. When she wanted light in him, he strove to give her light. When she wanted darkness, he gave her darkness. She once asked him to let her in, and he really did everything he could to accommodate her in his world, whoever she was. Well, at least he knows now that she would always love him, whatever happened to her. He knows now that she'd love him even if she wasn't in her right mind. And because of that, she would never regret what happened – she'd never regret the abandonment and the dark fall they lived through. It was still about them; she always knew that two girls lived in her, just as two men lived in him. The dreamer and the practical girl, she used to call them mentally; the one who aspired to things and the one who lived in the material world. And, even though the material girl proved to be a little bit too down-to-earth, she knew now that both were needed to be _her_; they were inseparable, just as both the man and the beast were inseparable in him.

If only she could find a way to wake him from his despair. If only she could find a way to ease his pain without destroying him, now that she sees him so clearly.

She feels like crying, and checks herself sternly. Now is not the time to cry, and to lean on him for support. She is the one who must be strong now.

She goes to the hand-basin he has installed in the back room, and splashes her face with water. She picks a brush and rearranges her hair. She wants to look decent.

She wants to look like herself.

They go out of the shop, and walk the town. She slips her hand under his arm, cuddling closer to him, as she used to, and he gives her a fleeting, grateful look. It seems he is grateful for her attempts to behave normally, though they feel so weird. Nothing is normal in the world they face; it did survive, but nothing in it is the same. The sun shines, the sea is bright and the wind crisp, but all that has an eerie edge to it. Great magic happened here today, and it always leaves a trace – just as it always has a price.

They go to the port, and find awful commotion there, and learn that the boy, his grandson, has been kidnapped. She feels him freeze at her side at the news, and shudders, inwardly. She did think that she would not regret anything that happened between them, and she meant it, but there is an exception. Her urging him to destroy the boy she'd never accept in herself; not just because of the horror of the very thought, but also because it showed how weak and helpless and selfish she was. She clung to him so, she was so afraid to lose him and so eager to keep him for herself that she was ready to urge him to do the unthinkable – to commit a crime darker than anything he ever did. There would have been no going back from that. She would have ruined him, beyond redemption – all because she was selfish and afraid!

She is thinking about that as she listens to all the good people in town making plans for saving the boy – he with them. The guilt at her selfishness is paramount in her mind as they all prepare to board the ship of a pirate who once tried to kill her – of a pirate who destroyed her memories; his mortal enemy, now ready to help too. She has to redeem her weakness, somehow. She needs to be at his side and help him, as well as she can. She knows she is strong enough for that.

And then he turns to her, with a heavy sigh, and says: 'I must go away now, Belle. And you… You must stay here'.

'What? Why?..' Will this man ever seize to startle her?

And then he explains, carefully, that she is needed here – she is the only person whom he can trust with protecting the town, it seems. He gives her the spell to perform, and she is surprised: why does he think she will be able to do it? She is not magical. And then she thinks, fearfully, of the curious fact that he had the spell ready and with him. Why is he prepared for this turn of events? Did he know what was going to happen? He sees the future; did he know he was going to go away and leave her behind?

And then, as the full meaning of casting the cloaking spell, hiding the town, hits her, she voices her gravest question. 'You are not coming back, are you?'

She barely listens to his words as he explains his need to sacrifice himself for the noble task. Her heart is screaming. Oh, she knew it, she knew it all along ever since the moment she saw his grey, washed-out face there in the shop when he woke her up. He doesn't want to live. He did not simply accept that he's going to die – he is going to seek death. His loss means more to him than she does. He sends her away, again, but this separation is going to be final.

She cannot face it. She cannot agree with that. They love each other, and it matters; love cannot be always defeated; she cannot be forever abandoned.

She must stop him. She cannot live without him. She cannot be alone, again.

She looks into her soul, and sees the dark desert it is without him. She cannot go back there alone; she cannot stay there alone, loving him and not finding him, forever.

Yet she cannot stop him, because trying to stop him now would be the act of the same selfishness and cowardice that the other, weak girl succumbed to. Stopping him now would mean blocking his way to saving himself; keeping him with her would destroy him…

But these are just thoughts, and they are good and right, but they are not the main reason for her inaction. The real reason that she cannot stop him now is that she cannot really reach him – again. His guilt and his readiness to die separate him from her; just as in his castle, when he was sending her away, something stands between them, making him untouchable to the full force of her love. Ah, it hurts so! It feels so unjust. Yet she cannot be offended – not this time. She cannot argue; he is right, he needs to go…

If only she could find a way to hold him – to bind him to her, somehow. She needs to find something, or to do something that would overcome death, for which he is so eager.

She remembers how, as she was leaving then, she told him he'd regret his decision forever, and his life would be nothing without her – just an empty heart, and a chipped cup. She thought these were just words – angry words of a hurt girl – back then. But it worked, somehow – it made their bond stronger, and look how important it made this cup for him.

All her love is gathered in her words as a hand in a fist as she tells him, looking into his eyes, gripping his shoulders: 'I _will_ see you again'.

Something happens – something stirs in the air as she says the words. Some ripple comes across the world – subtle, but unmistakable. Magic is happening. And, wishing to make it stronger, wishing love to be omnipotent, wishing it with all the foolish force of her foolish ravaged heart, she reaches to kiss him. Let the good ones look at them now. Let them be amazed at the strange girl who loves a monster. They shunned him, always. They despised him, always, even as they asked for his help. Her, they seemed to accept as one of their own. Yet she was always an odd one, never a part of the crowd. She was always an outcast, and she doesn't really belong with them, all these heroes. She belongs with him.

Let them see how the Dark One is loved. Let them see the man he is, for her.

Let _him_ see who he is, for her.

As she kisses him, sobbing, in front of all astounded eyes, she sees or feels nothing but his lips, salty with their tears, his warmth, his catching breath. She hears nothing but his voice in her head. _'That's who you are!' he said._ 'That's who _you_ are', she tells him silently.

And then something changes – really changes – in the world. Great wave of magic, unseen to everyone but to him and to her crashes them, breaking the wall of ice around him. She can almost see the shards falling down. And she feels it again – the power to reach him, the power to change him, the power to help him. Their bond used to be a thin tread tugging at their hearts and glowing in the dark, stubbornly, all these years. It is a flow of light now, so wide and bright that it doesn't connect them – it envelops them.

He feels it, too – of course he does. As they press their foreheads together and look into each other's eyes, there are so many things in his gaze. Regret for everything that happened. Joy at everything that happened. Acceptance of their fate, as they shape it. He is exasperated at her stubbornness, and grateful for it. He is still in pain, he still thinks that he knows what will happen to them, but there is a glimmer of hope; he is ready to believe her. He wants to believe her, even though he cannot, yet. There is love in his eyes, and it is not hopeless anymore. He _feels_ her love, and knows its' power, and he has his strength back. He is humbled, but not defeated.

She can let him go, now. She can let him go, for they will be together, even though separated by space and time. She can let him go, with all his pain and guilt, for she knows she can always reach him. They will always be connected. She would bring him back, if needs be – she would call to him and he will hear her voice. Their hearts would beat as one, and even if his stops, hers will make him go on.

She turns and walks away from him, willing herself not to cry, not to make things harder for him by showing how much she hurts. There will be time to cry later, when she is alone – when she realizes just how completely alone she is.

She knows he is watching her, as she goes, she hears his sigh as he comes aboard. She knows everything that is happening to him; it is as if they have a joined mind or a single heart between them two.

At a distance, she stops and turns around to see the harbor. The ship had started sailing; the magic bean was thrown into the waves, and the huge vortex is ready to swallow the ship. Her heart skips a beat as the ship disappears under the waves, taking him into a different world, and waters go still. For a second, her world is empty.

And then she feels it again – the light of their love, strong, stubborn, insistent, connecting them beyond any borders. She is smiling as her eyes fill with tears.

He's with her now, as she is with him. She will wait for him when he returns, as she promised him on the city border. He'll come back. She will _bring_ him back.

She will see him again.

6


End file.
